JNIVERSITY  OF  CA  RIVERSIDE,  LIBRARY 


3  1210018385714 


v^ 

L'U 


i 


THE 

PATHLESS 

TRAIL 


THE 

PATHLESS 
TRAIL 


BY  y 

ARTHUR  O.  FRIEL 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET   &   DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 

Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PS35// 


THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 


Copyright,  1922,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 

THE  MEMORY  OF 
MY  FATHER 

GEORGE  WILLIAM  FRIEL 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAG2 

I.  SONS  OF  THE  NOETH 1 

II.  AT  SUNDOWN 8 

III.  THE  VOICE  OP  THE  WILDS 19 

IV.  THE  GERMAN 28 

V.  INTO  THE  BUSH 40 

VI.  IN  THE  NIGHT  WATCH 57 

VII.  COLD  STEEL   70 

VIII.  THE  DOUBLE-CROSS 85 

IX.  FIDDLERS  THREE 97 

X.  BY  THE  LIGHT  OP  STORM 107 

XI.  Our  OF  THE  AIR 117 

XII.  THE  ARROW 129 

XIII.  THE  WAT  OP  THE  JUNGLE 144 

XIV.  A  DUEL  WITH  DEATH 156 

XV.  THE  CANNIBALS 169 

XVI.  BLACKBEARD 183 

XVII.  FEVER       200 

XVIII.  FRUIT  OP  THE  TRAP 212 

XIX.  THE  RED  BONES 224 

XX.  THE  RAPOSA 237 

XXI.  SHADOWS  OP  THE  NIGHT 253 

XXII.  THE  SIREN  OP  WAR 269 

XXIII.  STRATEGY 283 

XXIV.  THE  BATTLE  OP  THE  TRIBES 300 

XXV.  THE  PASSING  OP  SCHWANDORF 314 

XXVI.  PARTNERS  .  327 


THE 

PATHLESS 

TRAIL 


THE 

PATHLESS 

TRAIL 


CHAPTER  I.    SONS  OF  THE  NORTH 

THREE  men  stood  ankle  deep  in  mud  on 
the  shore  of  a  jungle  river,  silently  watch 
ing  a  ribbon  of  smoke  drift  and  dissolve 
above  the  somber  mass  of  trees  to  the  northwest. 
Three  men  of  widely  different  types  they 
were,  yet  all  cradled  in  the  same  far-off  northern 
land.  The  tallest,  lean  bodied  but  broad 
shouldered,  black  of  hair  and  gray  of  eye,  held 
himself  in  soldierly  fashion  and  gazed  unmoved. 
His  two  mates  —  one  stocky,  red  faced  and  red 
headed;  the  other  slender,  bronzed  and  blond 
—  betrayed  then1  thoughts  in  their  blue  eyes. 
The  red  man  squinted  quizzically  at  the  smoke 
feather  as  if  it  mattered  little  to  "Him  where  he 
was.  The  blond  watched  it  with  the  wistfulness 
of  one  who  sees  the  last  sign  of  his  own  world 
fade  out. 

Behind  them,  at  a  respectful  distance,  a  num 
ber  of  swarthy  individuals  of  both  sexes  in  nonde 
script  garments  smoked  and  stared  at  the  trio 


2  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

with  the  interest  always  accorded  strangers  by 
the  dwellers  of  the  Out  Places.  They  eyed  the 
uncompromising  back  of  the  tall  one,  the  easy 
lounge  of  the  red  one,  the  thoughtful  attitude  of 
the  light  one.  The  copper-faced  men  peered  at 
the  rifles  hanging  in  the  right  hands  of  the  new 
comers,  their  knee  boots,  khaki  clothing,  and 
wide  hats.  The  women  let  then-  eyes  rove 
over  the  boxes  and  bundles  reposing  in  the  mud 
beside  the  three. 

"Ingles?"  hazarded  a  woman,  speaking 
through  the  stem  of  the  black  pipe  clutched  in 
her  filed  teeth. 

"Notre- Americano"  asserted  a  man,  nodding 
toward  the  broad  hats.  "Englishmen  would 
wear  the  round  helmets  of  pith." 

"Mercadores?  Traders?"  suggested  the  wom 
an,  hopefully  running  an  eye  again  over  the 
bundles. 

"Explor adores,"  the  man  corrected.  "Ex 
plorers  of  the  bush.  Have  you  no  eyes?  Do 
you  not  see  the  guns  and  high  boots?" 

The  woman  subsided.  The  others  continued 
what  seemed  to  be  their  only  occupation — 
smoking. 

The  smoke  streamer  in  the  north  vanished. 
As  if  moved  by  the  same  impulse,  the  three 
strangers  turned  their  heads  and  looked  south- 
westward,  upriver.  The  red-haired  man  spoke. 

"So  we've  lit  at  last,  as  the  feller  said  when 
him  and  his  airyplane  landed  in  a  sewer.  Faith, 


SONS  OF  THE  NORTH  3 

I  dunno  but  he  was  better  off  than  us,  at  that — 
he  wasn't  two  thousand  miles  from  nowheres 
like  we  are.  The  steamer's  gone,  and  us  three 
pore  lil'  boys  are  left  a  long  ways  from  home." 

Then,  assuming  the  tone  of  a  showman,  he 
went  on: 

"Before  ye,  girls,  ye  see  the  well  known 
Ja-va-ree  River,  which  I  never  seen  before  and 
comes  from  gosh-knows-where  and  ends  in  the 
Ammyzon.  Over  there  on  t'other  side  the  water 
is  Peru.  Yer  feet  are  in  the  mud  of  Brazil. 
This  other  river  to  yer  left  is  the  Tickywahoo — " 

"Tecuahy,"  the  blond  man  corrected,  grinning. 

"Yeah.  And  behind  ye  is  the  last  town  in 
the  world  and  the  place  that  God  forgot.  What 
d'ye  call  this  here,  now,  city?" 

"Remate  de  Males.  Which  means  'Culmina 
tion  of  Evils."' 

"Yeah.  It  looks  it.  Wonder  if  it's  anything 
like  Hell's  Kitchen,  up  in  liT  old  N'Yawk." 

They  turned  and  looked  dubiously  at  the 
town — a  row  of  perhaps  seventy  iron-walled 
and  palm-roofed  houses  set  on  high  palm-trunk 
poles,  each  with  its  ladder  dropping  from  the 
doorway  to  the  one  muddy  street.  Then  spoke 
the  tall  man. 

"Before  you  see  it  again,  Tim,  you'll  think 
it's  quite  a  town.  Above  here  is  nothing  but  a 
few  rubber  estates,  seven  hundred  miles  of 
unknown  river,  and  empty  jungle." 

"Empty,  huh?    Then  they  kidded  us  on  the 


4  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

boat.  From  what  they  said  it's  fair  crawlin' 
with  snakes  and  j  aggers  and  lizards  and  bloody 
vampires  and  spiders  as  big  as  yer  fist.  And  the 
water  is  full  o'  man-eatin'  fish  and  the  bush  full 
o'  man-eatin'  Injuns.  If  that's  what  ye  call 
empty,  Cap,  don't  take  me  no  place  where  it's 
crowded." 

A  slight  smile  twitched  the  set  lips  of  the  tall 
"cap." 

"They're  all  here,  Tun,  though  maybe  not  so** 
thick  as  you  expect.    Lots  of  other  things  too. 
Who's  this?" 

Through  the  knot  of  pipe-puffing  idlers  came 
a  portly  coppery  man  in  uniform. 

"Well,  I'll  be —  Say,  he's  the  same  chap 
who  came  onto  the  boat  in  a  police  uniform. 
Now  he's  in  army  rig,"  the  light-haired  member 
of  the  trio  exclaimed.  "O  Lordy!  I've  got  it! 
He's  the  police  force  and  the  army!  The  whole 
blooming  works!  Ha!" 

Tim  snickered  and  stepped  forward. 

"Hullo,  buddy!"  he  greeted.  "What's  on 
yer  mind?  " 

"Boa  dia,  senhor,"  responded  the  official, 
affably.  With  the  words  he  deftly  slipped  an 
arm  around  Tun's  waist  and  lifted  the  other 
hand  toward  his  shoulder.  But  that  hand 
stopped  short,  then  flew  wildly  out  into  the 
ah*. 

Tim  gave  a  grunt  and  a  heave.  The  official 
went  skidding  and  slithering  six  feet  through  the 


SONS  OF  THE  NORTH  5 

mud,  clutching  at  nothing  and  contorting  him 
self  in  a  frantic  effort  to  keep  from  sprawling  in 
the  muck.  By  a  margin  thin  as  an  eyelash  he 
succeeded  in  preserving  his  balance  and  stood 
where  he  stopped,  amazement  and  anger  in  his 
face. 

"Lay  off  that  stuff!"  growled  Tim,  head  for 
ward  and  jaw  out.  "If  ye  want  trouble  come 
and  git  it  like  a  man,  not  sneak  up  with  a  grin 
and  then  clinch.  Don't  reach  for  no  knife,  now, 
or  I'll  drill  ye—" 

"Tim!"  barked  the  black-haired  one.  "Ten- 
shun!" 

Automatically  Tim's  head  snapped  erect  and 
his  shoulders  went  back.  He  relaxed  again 
almost  at  once.  But  in  the  meantime  the  tall 
man  had  stepped  forward  and  faced  the  raging 
representative  of  the  government  of  Brazil. 

"Pardon,  comrade,"  he  said  with  an  engaging 
smile.  "My  friend  is  a  stranger  to  Brazil  and 
not  acquainted  with  your  manner  of  welcome. 
In  our  own  country  men  never  put  the  arm 
around  one  another  except  in  combat.  He  has 
been  a  soldier.  You  are  a  soldier.  So  you  can 
understand  that  a  fighting  man  may  be  a  little 
abrupt  when  he  does  not  understand." 

The  smile,  the  apology,  and  most  of  all  the 
subtle  flattery  of  being  treated  as  an  equal  by  a 
man  whose  manner  betokened  the  North  Ameri 
can  army  officer,  mollified  the  aggrieved  official 
at  once.  The  hot  gleam  died  out  of  his  eyes. 

2 


6  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

Punctiliously  he  saluted.  The  salute  was  as 
punctiliously  returned. 

"It  is  forgotten,  Capitao.  As  the  capitao  says, 
we  soldiers  are  sometimes  overquick.  I  come  to 
give  you  welcome  to  Remate  de  Males.  My 
services  are  at  your  disposal.'* 

"We  thank  you.  Why  do  you  call  me 
capitao?" 

"My  eyes  know  a  capitao  when  they  see 
him." 

"But  this  is  not  a  military  expedition,  my 
friend.  Nor  are  any  of  us  soldiers  now — though 
we  all  have  been." 

"Once  a  capitao,  always  a  capitao,"  the 
Brazilian  insisted.  Then  he  hinted:  "If  the 
capitao  and  his  friends  wish  to  call  upon  the 
superintendente  they  will  find  him  in  the  in- 
tendencia,  the  blue  building  beyond  the  hotel. 
Jt  will  soon  be  closed  for  the  day." 

The  tall  American's  keen  gray  eyes  roved 
down  the  street  to  the  weather-beaten  house 
whose  peeling  walls  once  might  have  been  blue. 
He  nodded  shortly. 

"Better  go  down  there,"  he  said.  "Come 
on,  Merry.  Tim,  stick  here  and  keep  an  eye  on 
the  stuff.  And  don't  start  another  war  while 
we're  gone." 

"Right,  Cap."  Tim  deftly  swung  his  rifle  to 
his  right  shoulder.  "I'll  walk  me  post  in  a  mili 
tary  manner,  keepin'  always  on  the  alert  and 
observin'  everything  that  takes  place  within 


SONS  OF  THE  NORTH  7 

sight  or  hearin',  accordin'  to  Gin'ral  Order 
Number  Two.  There  won't  be  no  war  unless 
somebody  starts  somethin'.  Hey,  there,  buddy, 
would  ye  smoke  a  God's-country  cigarette  if  I 
give  ye  one?" 

"Si,"  grinned  the  soldier-policeman,  all  ani 
mosity  gone.  And  as  the  other  two  men  tramped 
away  through  the  mud  they  also  grinned,  looking 
back  at  the  North  and  the  South  American 
pacing  side  by  side  in  sentry-go,  blowing  smoke 
and  conversing  like  brothers  in  arms. 

"Tun  likes  to  remember  his  'general  orders/ 
but  he's  forgotten  Number  Five,"  laughed  the 
blond  man. 

"Five?  'To  talk  to  no  one  except  in  line  of 
duty.'  Don't  need  it  here,  Merry." 

"Nope.  The  entente  cordiale  is  the  thing. 
Here's  hoping  nobody  makes  Tun  remember  his 
'Gin'ral  Order  Number  Thirteen'  while  we're 
gone,  Rod." 

He  of  the  black  hair  smiled  again  as  his  mate, 
mimicking  Tim's  gruff  voice,  quoted: 

"'Gin'ral  Order  Number  Thirteen:  In  case  o' 
doubt,  bust  the  other  guy  quick.'" 


CHAPTER  II.    AT  SUNDOWN 

PAST  the  loungers  in  the  street,  past  others 
in  the  doorways,  past  children  and  dogs 
and  goats,  the  pair  marched  briskly  to  the 
faded  blue  house  whence  the  federal  superintend 
ent  ruled  the  town  with  tropic  indolence.  There 
they  found  a  thin,  fever-worn,  gravely  courteous 
gentleman  awaiting  them. 

"Sit,  senhores,"  he  urged,  with  a  languid  wave 
of  the  hand  toward  chairs.  "I  am  honored  by 
your  visit,  as  is  all  Remate  de  Males.  In  what 
way  can  I  serve  you?" 

The  blond  answered: 

"We  have  come,  sir,  both  for  the  pleasure  of 
making  your  acquaintance  and  for  a  little  infor 
mation.  First  permit  me  to  introduce  my  friend 
Mr.  Roderick  McKay,  lately  a  captain  in  the 
United  States  army.  I  am  Meredith  Knowlton. 
There  is  a  third  member  of  our  party,  Mr. 
Timothy  Ryan,  who  remained  on  the  river  bank 
to  talk  with — er — a  soldier  of  Brazil." 

The  federal  official  nodded,  a  slight  smile  hi  his 
eyes. 

"We  are  here  ostensibly  for  exploration," 
Knowlton  continued,  candidly,  "but  actually  to 
find  a  certain  man.  I  think  it  quite  probable  that 
we  shall  have  to  do  considerable  exploring  before 
finding  him." 


AT  SUNDOWN  9 

"Ah,"  the  other  murmured,  shrewdly.  "It  is 
a  matter  of  police  work,  perhaps?" 

"  No — and  yes.  The  man  we  seek  is  not  wanted 
by  the  law,  and  yet  he  is.  He  has  committed  no 
crime,  and  so  cannot  be  arrested.  But  the  law 
wants  him  badly  because  the  settlement  of  a  cer 
tain  big  estate  hinges  upon  the  question  of 
whether  he  is  alive  or  dead.  If  alive,  he  is  heir 
to  more  than  a  million.  If  not — the  money  goes 
elsewhere." 

"Ah,"  repeated  the  official,  thoughtfully. 

"I  might  add,"  McKay  broke  in  with  a  touch 
of  stiffness,  "that  neither  I  nor  either  of  my 
companions  would  profit  in  any  way  by  this 
man's  death.  Quite  the  contrary." 

"Ah,"  reiterated  the  other,  his  face  clearing. 
"You  are  commissioned,  perhaps,  to  find  and 
produce  this  man." 

"Exactly,"  Knowlton  nodded.  "From  our  own 
financial  standpoint  he  is  worth  much  more  alive 
than  dead.  On  the  other  hand,  any  absolute  proof 
of  his  death — proof  which  would  stand  in  a 
court  of  law — is  worth  something  also.  Our 
task  is  to  produce  either  the  man  himself  or 
indisputable  proof  that  he  no  longer  lives. 

"The  man's  name  is  David  Dawson  Rand.  If 
alive,  he  now  is  thirty-three  years  old.  Height 
five  feet  nine.  Weight  about  one  hundred  sixty. 
Hair  dark,  though  not  black.  Eyes  grayish  green. 
Chief  distinguishing  marks  are  the  green  eyes, 
a  broken  nose — caused  by  being  struck  in  the 


10  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

face  by  a  baseball — and  a  patch  of  snow-white 
hair  the  size  of  a  thumb  ball,  two  inches  above 
the  left  ear.  Accustomed  to  having  his  own  way, 
not  at  all  considerate  of  others.  Yet  not  a  bad 
fellow  as  men  go — merely  a  man  spoiled  by  too 
much  mothering  in  boyhood  and  by  the  fact  that 
he  never  had  to  work.  This  is  he." 

From  a  breast  pocket  he  drew  a  small  grain- 
leather  notebook,  from  which  he  extracted  an 
unmounted  photograph.  The  superintendent 
looked  into  the  pictured  face  of  a  full-cheeked, 
wide-mouthed,  square-jawed  man  with  a  slightly 
blase"  expression  and  a  half-cynical  smile.  After 
studying  it  a  minute  he  nodded  and  handed  it 
back. 

"As  you  say,  senhor,  a  man  who  never  has  had 
to  work." 

"Exactly.  For  five  years  this  man  has  been 
regarded  as  dead.  It  was  his  habit  to  start  off 
suddenly  for  any  place  where  his  whims  drew 
him,  notifying  nobody  of  his  departure.  But 
a  few  days  later  he  would  always  write,  cable, 
or  telegraph  his  relatives,  so  that  his  general 
whereabouts  would  soon  become  known.  On 
his  last  trip  he  sent  a  radio  message  from  a 
steamer,  out  at  sea,  saying  he  was  bound  for 
Rio  Janeiro.  That  was  the  last  ever  heard  from 
him." 

"Rio  is  far  from  here,"  suggested  the  Brazilian. 

"Just  so.  We  look  for  Rand  at  the  head 
waters  of  the  Amazon,  instead  of  in  Rio,  because 


AT  SUNDOWN  11 

Rio  yields  no  clew  and  because  of  one  other 
thing  which  I  shall  speak  of  presently. 

"It  has  been  learned  that  he  reached  Rio 
safely,  but  there  his  trail  ended.  As  he  had 
several  thousand  dollars  on  his  person,  it  was 
concluded  that  he  was  murdered  for  his  money 
and  his  body  disposed  of.  This  belief  has  been 
held  until  quite  recently,  when  a  new  book  of 
travel  was  published — The  Mother  of  Waters,  by 
Dwight  Dexter,  an  explorer  of  considerable  repu 
tation." 

The  Brazilian's  brows  lifted. 

"Senhor  Dexter?  I  remember  Senhor  Dexter. 
He  stopped  here  for  a  short  time,  ill  with  fever. 
So  he  has  published  a  book?" 

"Yes.-  It  deals  mainly  with  his  travels  and 
observations  in  Peru,  along  the  Maranon,  Hual- 
laga,  and  Ucayali.  But  it  includes  a  short  chapter 
regarding  the  Javary,  and  in  that  chapter  occurs 
the  following,  which  I  have  copied  verbatim." 

From  the  notebook  he  read: 

" '  It  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  explorer  at  times  to 
meet  not  only  hitherto  unclassified  species  of 
fauna  and  flora,  but  also  strange  specimens  of 
the  genus  homo.  Such  a  creature  came  suddenly 
upon  my  camp  one  day  just  before  a  serious  and 
well-nigh  fatal  attack  of  fever  compelled  me  to 
relinquish  my  intention  to  proceed  farther  up  the 
Javary. 

"'  While  my  Indian  cook  was  preparing  the 
afternoon  meal,  out  from  the  dense  jungle  strode 


12  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

a  bearded,  shaggy-haired,  painted  white  man, 
totally  nude  save  for  a  narrow  breechclout  and 
a  quiver  containing  several  long  hunting  arrows. 
In  one  hand  he  carried  a  strong  bow  of  really 
excellent  workmanship.  This  was  his  only 
weapon.  He  wore  no  ornament,  unless  streaks  of 
brilliant  red  paint  be  considered  ornaments.  He 
was  wild  and  savage  in  appearance  and  manner  as 
any  cannibal  Indian.  Yet  he  was  indubitably 
white. 

( '  To  my  somewhat  startled  greeting  he  made 
no  response.  Neither  did  he  speak  at  any  time 
during  his  unceremonious  visit.  Bolt  upright,  he 
stood  beside  my  crude  table  until  the  Indian 
stolidly  brought  in  my  food.  Then,  without  a 
by-your-leave,  the  wild  man  rapidly  wolfed  down 
the  entire  meal,  feeding  himself  with  one  hand 
and  holding  his  bow  ready  in  the  other.  Though 
I  questioned  him  and  sought  to  draw  him  into 
conversation,  he  honored  me  with  not  so  much 
as  a  grunt  or  a  gesture.  When  the  table  was  bare 
he  stalked  out  again  and  vanished  into  the  dun 
forest. 

'"After  he  had  gone  my  Indian  urged  that  we 
leave  the  place  at  once.  The  man,  he  said,  was 
"The  Raposa" — a  word  which  denotes  a  species 
of  wild  dog  sometimes  found  on  the  upper 
Amazon.  He  knew  nothing  of  this  "Raposa" 
except  that  he  apparently  belonged  to  a  wild 
tribe  living  far  back  in  the  forest,  perhaps  allied 
with  the  cannibal  Mayorunas,  who  were  very 


AT  SUNDOWN  13 

fierce;  and  that  he  appeared  sometimes  at  Indian 
settlements,  where,  without  ever  speaking,  he 
would  help  himself  to  the  best  food  and  then 
leave.  My  man  seemed  to  fear  that  now  some 
great  misfortune  would  come  to  us  unless  we 
shifted  our  base.  When  the  fever  came  upon  me 
soon  afterward,  the  superstitious  fellow  was  con 
vinced  that  the  illness  was  attributable  directly 
to  the  visit  of  the  human  "wild  dog." 

"'  Aside  from  the  nudity  and  barbarism  of  the 
mysterious  stranger,  certain  personal  peculiari 
ties  struck  me.  One  was  that  his  eyes  were  green. 
Another  was  a  streak  of  snow-white  hair  above 
one  ear.  Furthermore,  the  red  paint  on  his  body 
outlined  his  skeleton.  His  ribs,  spine,  arm-  and 
leg-bones  all  were  portrayed  on  his  tanned  skin 
by  those  brilliant  red  streaks.  In  this  connection 
my  Indian  asserted  that  in  the  tribe  to  which 
"The  Raposa"  probably  belonged  it  was  the 
custom  to  preserve  the  bones  of  the  dead  and  to 
paint  them  with  this  same  red  dye,  after  which 
the  bones  were  hung  up  in  the  huts  of  the  de 
ceased  instead  of  being  given  burial.  Beyond 
this  my  informant  knew  nothing  of  the  "Red 
Bone"  people,  except  that  to  enter  their  country 
was  death."1 

Knowlton  returned  the  book  to  his  pocket  and 
carefully  buttoned  the  flap. 

"When  that  appeared,"  he  continued,  "efforts 
were  made  to  get  hold  of  Dexter,  with  the  idea 
of  showing  him  the  photograph  of  the  missing 


14  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

man  and  learning  any  additional  details.  Unfor 
tunately,  by  the  time  the  book  was  published 
Dexter  had  gone  to  Africa  to  seek  a  race  of 
dwarfs  said  to  exist  in  the  Igidi  Desert,  and  thus 
was  totally  out  of  reach.  Then  we  were  called 
upon  to  follow  up  this  clew  and  find  the  Raposa 
if  possible.  Men  with  green  eyes  and  patches  of 
white  hair  above  one  ear  are  not  common.  So, 
though  our  knowledge  of  this  strange  wild  man 
is  confined  to  those  few  words  of  Dexter's,  we 
are  here  to  learn  more  of  him  and  to  get  him  if 


we  can." 


He  looked  expectantly  at  the  onicial.  The 
latter,  after  staring  out  through  the  doorway  for 
a  time,  shook  his  head  slightly. 

"Something  of  this  Raposa  and  of  those  red- 
streaked  people  has  come  to  my  ears,  senhores, 
but  only  as  rumors,"  he  said,  slowly.  "And 
one  does  not  place  great  faith  in  rumors.  Yet  I 
have  repeatedly  been  surprised  to  learn,  after 
dismissing  a  story  as  an  empty  Indian  tale,  that 
the  tale  was  true. 

"  Of  the  Mayorunas  more  is  known.  They  are 
eaters  of  human  flesh,  inhabiting  both  sides  of 
the  Javary,  deadly  when  angered,  and  very 
easily  angered.  Their  country  is  not  many  days 
distant  from  here,  but  as  they  never  attack  us 
we  do  not  attack  them.  It  is  an  armed  neutrality, 
as  you  senhores  would  say.  True,  we  have  to 
be  careful  in  drinking  water,  for  they  sometimes 
poison  the  streams  against  real  or  imaginary 


AT  SUNDOWN  15 

enemies,  and  the  poisoned  waters  flow  down  to 
us,  causing  those  who  drink  it  to  die  of  a  fever 
like  the  typhoid.  Yet,"  and  he  smiled,  "there  is 
a  saying,  is  there  not,  that  water  is  made  not  to 
drink,  but  to  bathe  in?" 

Knowlton  laughed.  McKay's  eyes  twinkled. 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  that  water's  about  all  a 
fellow  can  get  to  drink  in  the  States  now,"  the 
blond  man  said,  ruefully.  "That  is,  of  course, 
unless  a  man  knows  where  to  go." 

"  Si.  It  is  a  pity.  But  here  in  Brazil  one 
need  not  drink  water  unless  he  wishes,  and 
often  it  is  better  not  to.  Of  the  Mayorunas, 
senhor — you  do  not  intend  to  go  among  them, 
seeking  this  wild  man  of  the  red  bones?  If 
you  should  do  so  it  would  be  a  matter  of  regret 
to  me." 

"Meaning  that  we  should  not  come  out  again? 
That's  a  risk  we  have  to  face.  We  go  wherever 
it  is  necessary." 

"I  am  sorry.  I  regret  also  that  I  can  give  you 
no  definite  information.  Yet  I  wish  you  all  suc 
cess,  senhores,  and  a  safe  return.  This  much  I 
can  do  and  gladly  will  do:  I  can  send  word  to 
another  white  man  who  now  is  in  the  town  and 
who  knows  much  of  the  upper  river.  He  may  be 
able  to  assist  you,  and  without  doubt  will  be 
eager  to  do  so.  He  is  staying  at  the  hotel,  just 
below  here — Senhor  Schwandorf." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  Americans  narrowed.  The 
official  coughed. 


16  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"Senhor  McKay  has  been  a  soldier.  And 
Senhor  Knowl-ton — " 

"I  was  a  lieutenant." 

"Ah!  But  the  war  has  passed,  senhores. 
Senhor  Schwandorf  was  not  a  soldier  of  Ger 
many — he  has  been  in  Brazil  for  more  than  six 
years." 

"War's  over.  That's  right,"  McKay  agreed. 
"But  don't  bother  to  send  word.  We'll  find  him 
if  he's  at  the  hotel.  Going  there  ourselves.  Glad 
to  have  met  you,  sir.  Good  luck!" 

"And  to  you  also  luck,  Capitao  and  Tenente," 
smiled  the  official.  McKay  and  Knowlton  strode 
out. 

"Guess  this  is  the  hotel,"  hazarded  McKay, 
glancing  at  a  house  which  rose  slightly  above  the 
others.  "I'll  go  in  and  charter  rooms.  You  get 
Tim  and  have  somebody  rustle  our  impedimenta 
up  here." 

He  turned  aside.  Knowlton  trudged  on  through 
the  glare  of  sunset  to  the  river  bank  where  Tim 
and  the  army  of  Remate  de  Males  still  loafed 
up  and  down,  the  admired  of  all  beholders. 

"All  right,  Tun.  We're  moving  to  the  hotel. 
No  more  war,  I  see." 

"Lord  love  ye,  no,"  grinned  Tun.  "Me  and 
this  feller  are  gittin'  on  fine.  He's  Joey — I  f orgit 
the  rest  of  his  names;  he's  got  about  a  dozen 
more  and  they  sound  like  stones  rattlin'  around 
inside  a  can.  But  Joey's  a  right  guy.  After 
me  tour  o'  duty  ends  he's  goin'  to  buy  me  a  drink 


AT  SUNDOWN  17 

and  maybe  introduce  me  to  a  lady  friend  o'  his. 
Want  to  join  the  party,  Looey?" 

"Not  unless  the  ladies  are  better  looking  than 
these,"  laughed  the  ex-lieutenant,  moving  his 
head  toward  the  pipe-smoking  females. 

"Faith,  I  was  thinkin'  that  same  meself. 
Unless  he  can  dig  up  somethin'  fancier  'n  what 
I  see  so  far,  I'd  as  soon  have  Mademoiselle." 

"Who?" 

"Mademoiselle  of  Armentieres.  Sure,  ye  know 
that  one,  Looey.  Goes  to  the  tune  o'  'Parley- 
Voo.'" 

Wherewith  he  lifted  up  a  foghorn  voice  and, 
much  to  the  edification  of  "Joey"  (whose  name 
really  was  Joao)  and  the  rest  of  Remate  de 
Males,  burst  into  song: 

"Mademoiselle  of  Armenteers, 

Pa-a-arley-voo! 
She  smoked  our  butta  and  bummed  our  beers, 

Pa-a-arley-voo  I 

She  had  cockeyes  and  jackass  ears 
And  she  hadn't  been  kissed  for  forty  years, 
Rinky  dinky-parley- voo ! ' ' 

As  his  musical  effort  ended,  out  from  the  dense 
jungle  hemming  in  the  town  burst  a  hideous 
roaring  howl.  Again  and  again  it  sounded  in  a 
horrible  crash  of  noise. 

"Holy  Saint  Pat!"  gasped  Tim,  throwing  his 
rifle  to  port  and  bracing  his  feet.  "Now  look 
what  I  went  and  done!  Is  that  the  echo,  or  a  cou 
ple  dozen  jaggers  all  fightin'  to  oncet?" 


18  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"Guariba,  Senhor  Ree-ann,"  snickered  Joao. 
"  Not  jaguars — no.  Only  one  little  guariba  mon 
key.  The  howler." 

"G'wan!    Ye're  kiddin' !" 

"  But  no,  amigo.  It  is  as  I  tell  you.  One  mon 
key.  It  is  sunset,  and  the  jungle  awakes." 

"My  gosh!  I'll  say  it  does.  Sounds  like  a 
Sat' day  night  row  in  a  Second  Av'noo  saloon, 
except  there  ain't  no  shootin'.  Guess  you  boys 
have  some  night  life,  too,  even  if  ye  are  away 
back  hi  the  bush." 

"  Tune  for  us  to  move,  Tim,"  laughed  Knowl- 
ton.  "  It  '11  be  dark  in  no  time.  Joao,  will  you 
have  our  baggage  moved  to  the  hotel?" 

"Si,  senhor.  Immediatamente.  Antonio — 
Jorge — Rosario!  And  you,  too,  Meldo — vem  cd! 
Carry  the  bundles  of  the  gentlemen  to  the  hotel, 
presto!  Proceed,  senhores.  I,  Joao  d' Almeida 
Magalhaes  Nabuco  Pestana  da  Fonseca,  will 
remain  here  on  guard  until  all  your  possessions 
have  been  transported.  Proceed  without  fear." 


CHAPTER   III.     THE   VOICE   OF   THE 
WILDS 

McKAY,  eyes  twinkling  again,  awaited 
them  at  the  top  of  the  hotel's  street 
ladder. 

"Rooms  any  good,  Rod?"  hailed  Knowlton. 

"Best  in  the  house,  Merry." 

"See  any  insects  in  the  beds?" 

"Nary  a  bug — in  the  beds."  The  twinkle  grew. 
"Didn't  look  in  the  bureaus  or  behind  the  mir 
rors.  Come  look  'em  over." 

Entering  a  sizable  room  evidently  used  for 
dining — for  its  chief  articles  of  furniture  were 
two  tables  made  from  planed  palm  trunks — 
McKay  waved  a  hand  toward  a  row  of  four  door 
ways  on  the  right. 

"First  three  are  ours,"  he  explained.  "Only 
vacancies  here.  Eight  rooms  in  this  hotel — the 
other  four  over  there."  He  pointed  across  the 
room,  on  the  other  side  of  which  opened  four 
similar  doors.  "They're  occupied  by  two  sick 
men,  one  drunk — hear  him  snore? — and  one  she- 
goat  which  is  kidding." 

"Huh?"  Tim  snorted,  suspiciously.  "I  think 
ye're  the  one  that's  kiddin',  Cap." 

"Not  a  bit.  I  looked.  The  last  room  on  this 
side  is  the  Dutchman's,  and  these  are  ours.  Take 
your  pick.  They're  all  alike." 


20  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

Knowlton  stepped  to  the  nearest  and  looked 
in.  For  a  moment  he  said  no  word.  Then  he 
softly  muttered: 

"Well,  I'll  be  spread-eagled!" 

"Me,  too,"  seconded  Tim,  who  had  been 
craning  his  neck. 

The  room  was  absolutely  empty.  No  bed,  no 
chair,  no  bureau,  no  rug — nothing  at  all  was  in  it 
except  two  iron  hooks.  Its  floor  consisted  of 
split  palm  logs,  round  side  up,  between  which 
opened  inch-wide  spaces.  Its  walls  were  rusty 
corrugated  iron,  guiltless  of  mirrors  or  pictures, 
which  did  not  reach  to  the  roof. 

"Observe  the  excellent  ventilation,"  grinned 
McKay.  "Wind  blows  up  through  the  floor — if 
there  is  any  wind — and  then  loops  over  the  par 
tition  into  the  next  fellow's  room." 

"Yeah.  And  I'll  say  any  guy  that  drops  his 
collar  button  is  out  o'  luck.  It  goes  plunk  into 
the  mud,  seven  foot  down  under  the  house.  But 
say,  Cap,  how  the  heck  do  we  sleep?  Hang  our 
selves  up  on  them  hooks?" 

"Exactly." 

"Kind  o'  rough  on  a  feller's  shirt,  ain't  it? 
And  the  shirt  would  likely  pull  off  over  yer  head 
before  mornin'." 

"Yes,  probably  would.  But  the  secret  is  this — 
you're  supposed  to  hang  your  hammock  on  those 
hooks.  You  provide  the  hammock.  The  hotel 
provides  the  hooks.  What  more  can  you  ask  of 
&  modern  hotel?" 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WILDS  21 

"Huh!  And  if  a  guy  wants  a  bath,  there's  the 
river,  all  full  o'  'gators  and  cattawampuses  and 
things.  And  if  ye  eat,  I  s'pose  ye  rustle  yer  own 
grub  and  pay  for  eatin'  it  off  that  slab  table 
there.  There's  jest  one  thing  ye  can  say  for  this 
dump — a  feller  can  spit  on  the  floor.  But  with 
all  them  cracks  hi  it  he  might  not  hit  it,  at  that. 
Mother  o'  mine!  To  think  Missus  Ryan's  liT 
boy  should  ever  git  caught  stayin'  in  a  hole  like 
this,  along  o'  drunks  and  skiddin'  she-goats  and — 
did  ye  say  a  Dutchman?" 

"German.  Chap  named  Schwandorf." 

"Yeah?"  Tim's  tone  was  sinister.  "Say,  Cap, 
gimme  the  room  next  that  guy.  And  if  ye  hear 
anybody  yowlin'  before  mornin'  don't  git  worried. 
It  won't  be  me." 

"None  of  that,  Tun,"  warned  Knowlton. 
"  The  war's  over— " 

"Since  when?  There  wasn't  no  peace  treaty 
signed  when  we  left  the  States." 

"Er — ahum!  Well,  technically  you're  right. 
But  this  fellow  may  be  useful  to  us.  He  knows 
the  upper  river,  they  say." 

"Aw,  well,  if  ye  can  use  him  I'll  lay  off  him. 
Where  is  he?" 

"Out  somewhere,"  answered  McKay.  "I 
haven't  seen  him  yet.  Want  this  first  room, 
Merry?" 

"Just  to  play  safe,  I'll  take  the  one  next  the 
German.  And  if  I  hear  any  war  in  the  night,  Tun, 

I'm  coming  over  the  top  with  both  hands  going." 

3  ' 


22  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"Grrrumph!"  growled  Tim. 

"That  goes,  Tim,"  warned  McKay.  "I'll  take 
this  room  and  you  can  have  the  one  between  us. 
Here  comes  the  baggage  train  with  our  stuff. 
In  here,  men!" 

Puffing  and  grunting,  Antonio  and  Jorge  and 
Rosario  and  Meldo  shuffled  in  with  the  boxes  and 
bundles.  Under  the  directions  of  McKay  and 
Knowlton,  these  were  stowed  in  the  bare  rooms. 
Then  the  four  shuffled  out  again,  grinning  happily 
over  a  small  roll  of  Brazilian  paper  reis  which 
McKay  had  peeled  from  a  much  larger  roll  and 
handed  to  them.  Immediately  following  their 
departure,  in  came  a  youth  carrying  three  new 
hammocks. 

"Our  beds,"  McKay  explained.  "I  sent  this 
lad  to  a  trader's  store  for  them.  He's  the  pro 
prietor's  son.  Thank  you,  Thomaz.  Tell  your 
father  to  put  these  on  our  bill,  and  take  for  your 
self  this  small  token  of  our  appreciation." 

More  reis  changed  hands.  The  young  Brazilian, 
with  a  flash  of  teeth,  informed  them  that  the 
evening  meal  would  soon  be  ready  and  disap 
peared  through  a  rear  door. 

"Do  they  really  feed  us  at  this  here,  now, 
hotel?"  Tim  demanded.  "Then  the  goat's  safe." 

"Meaning?"  puzzled  Knowlton. 

"Meanin'  I  didn't  know  but  we  had  to  kill  our 
supper,  and  I  was  goin'  to  git  the  cap'n's  goat. 
That  is,  the  goat  the  cap'n's  kiddin' — I  mean 
the  goat  that's  kiddin'  the  cap — the  skiddin'  she- 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WILDS  23 

goat —  Aw,  rats!  ye  know  what  I'm  drivin'  at. 
Me  tongue  so  dry  it  don't  work  right." 

Wherewith  Tim  retreated  in  disorder  to  his 
room  and  began  wrestling  with  his  new  hammock 
and  the  iron  hooks. 

Swift  darkness  filled  the  rooms.  The  sun  had 
slid  down  below  the  bulge  of  the  fast-rolling 
world.  Thomaz  re-entered,  lit  candles  stuck  in 
empty  bottles,  and,  with  a  bow,  placed  one  of  these 
crude  illuminants  at  the  door  of  each  of  the 
strangers.  By  the  flickering  lights  McKay  and 
Knowlton  disposed  their  effects  according  to  their 
individual  desires,  bearing  in  mind  Tun's  obser 
vation  that  any  small  article  dropped  on  the 
floor  would  land  in  the  mud  under  the  house, 
whence  sounded  the  grunts  of  pigs.  Their  work 
was  soon  completed,  and  they  sauntered  together 
to  the  small  piazza. 

"Nice  quiet  little  place,"  commented  Knowl 
ton.  "Make  a  good  sanitarium  for  nervous 
folks." 

The  comment  was  made  in  a  tone  which,  in 
the  daytime,  would  carry  half  a  mile.  McKay 
nodded  to  save  a  similar  effort.  The  outbreak 
of  the  howling  monkey  which  so  startled  Tim 
had  been  only  the  first  note  of  the  night  concert  of 
the  jungle.  Now  that  the  sun  was  gone  the  chorus 
was  in  full  swing. 

Beasts  of  the  village,  the  jungle,  the  river,  all 
hurled  their  voices  into  the  uproar.  From  the 
gloom  around  the  houses  rose  the  bellowing  of 


24 

cows  and  calves,  the  howls  and  yelps  of  dogs, 
the  yowling  of  cats,  the  grunts  and  squeals  of 
hogs.  In  the  black  river,  flowing  past  within  a 
stone's  throw  of  the  hotel  door,  sounded  the  loud 
snorts  of  dolphins  and  the  hideous  night  call  of 
the  foul  beast  of  the  mud — the  alligator.  Out 
from  the  matted  tangle  of  trees  and  brush  and 
great  snakelike  vines  behind  the  town  rolled  the 
appalling  roars  of  guaribas,  raucous  bird  calls, 
dismal  hoots,  sudden  scattered  screams.  And 
over  all,  whelming  all  other  sound  by  the  sheer 
might  of  its  penetrating  power,  throbbed  the 
rapid-fire  hammering  of  millions  of  frogs. 

"Frogs  sound  like  a  machine-gun  barrage," 
the  blond  man  added. 

"Or  thousands  of  riveting  hammers  pounding 
steel." 

"Queer  how  much  worse  it  is  when  you're 
right  in  it.  We've  heard  it  all  the  way  up  two 
thousand  miles  of  Amazon,  but — " 

"But  you're  right  beside  the  orchestra  now. 
Position  is  everything  in  life." 

The  double-edged  jest  made  Knowlton  glance 
sidelong  at  his  mate.  Of  the  tall,  eagle-faced 
Scot's  past  he  knew  little  beyond  what  he  had 
seen  of  him  in  war,  where  he  had  met  him  and 
learned  to  respect  him  whole-heartedly.  From 
occasional  remarks  he  had  learned  that  McKay 
had  been  in  all  sorts  of  places  between  Buenos 
Aires  and  Nome;  and  from  a  few  intangible  hints 
he  suspected  that  his  "position  in  life"  had  once 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WILDS  25 

been  much  higher  socially  than  at  present.  But 
he  asked  no  questions. 

"Some  orchestra,  all  right,"  he  responded, 
casually.  "  Plenty  of  jazz.  It  '11  quiet  down  after 
a  while." 

For  a  tune  they  stood  leaning  against  the  wall, 
staring  abstractedly  out  at  the  dark.  One  by  one 
the  domestic  animals  ceased  their  clamor  and 
settled  themselves  for  the  night.  The  jungle  din, 
too,  seemed  to  diminish,  though  perhaps  this  was 
because  the  ears  of  the  men  had  become  accus 
tomed  to  it.  At  length  through  the  discordant 
symphony  boomed  the  voice  of  Tim. 

"By  cripes!  I  know  now  what  folks  mean  when 
they  talk  about  a  howlin'  wilderness.  Always 
thought  'twas  one  o'  them  figgers  o'  speech,  but 
I'll  tell  the  world  it  ain't  no  joke!  Gosh!  Think 
of  all  the  things  that's  layin'  out  there  and 
bellerin'  and  waitin'  for  us  pore  li'l'  fellers  to 
come  in  amongst  'em  and  git  et  up." 

"You'll  find  the  same  things  in  the  cities  up 
home,"  said  Knowlton,  a  bit  cynically.  "Dif 
ferent  bodies  and  different  methods  of  attack, 
but  the  same  merciless  animals  under  the  skin. 
Snakes  in  silk  suits — foul-mouthed  alligators  in 
dinner  jackets  —  hunting  -  cats  and  vampires, 
painted  and  powdered — and  all  the  rest  of  it." 

"Yeah.  Ye  said  a  mouthful,  Looey.  But  say, 
Tommy's  shovin'  some  grub  on  the  table.  Mebbe 
we  better  hop  to  it  before  the  flies  git  it  all." 

After  a  glance  at  the  vicious  attack  already 


26  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

begun  by  the  aforesaid  flies,  the  pair  adopted 
Tim's  suggestion  and  hopped  to  it.  Manfully 
they  assailed  the  rubbery  jerked  beef,  black 
beans,  rice,  f  arinha,  and  thick,  black,  unsweetened 
coffee  which  comprised  the  meal.  All  three  were 
wrestling  with  chunks  of  the  meat  when  Tim, 
facing  the  door,  stopped  chewing  long  enough  to 
mutter: 

"Dutchland  overalls.  Here's  the  goose  step 
per." 

The  heads  of  the  other  two  involuntarily  moved 
a  little.  Then  their  necks  stiffened  and  they  con 
tinued  eating.  Tim  alone  stared  straight  at  a 
burly,  black-whiskered  Teuton  who  had  halted  in 
the  outer  doorway.  And  Tun  alone  saw  the  ugly 
look  crossing  the  newcomer's  visage  as  he  gazed 
at  the  khaki  shirts,  the  broad  shoulders  under 
them,  and  the  unmistakably  Irish — and  hostile — 
face  of  Tim  himself. 

Catching  the  hard  stare  of  the  red-haired  man, 
he  of  the  black  beard  advanced  at  once,  his  eyes 
veering  to  the  door  of  his  own  room.  Straight  to 
that  room  he  marched  with  heavy  tread.  He 
opened  the  door  with  a  kick,  shut  it  behind  him 
with  a  slam.  The  three  at  the  table  glanced  at 
one  another. 

"Say  what  ye  like,"  grumbled  Tim,  "but  me 
and  that  guy  don't  hold  no  mush  party.  I  don't 
like  his  map.  I  don't  like  his  manners.  And  he 
looks  too  much  like  the  Fritz  that  shot  me  in  the 
back  with  a  kamerad  gun  after  surrenderin'.  I 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WILDS  27 

was  in  hospital  three  months.  D'ye  mind  that 
time,  Looey?" 

Knowlton  nodded.  He  remembered  also  that 
Tim,  shot  down  from  behind  and  almost  killed,  had 
reeled  up  to  his  feet  and  bayoneted  his  man  before 
falling  the  second  time.  Wherefore  he  replied: 

"He  isn't  the  same  one,  Tim." 

"Nope,"  grimly.  "That  one  won't  never 
come  back.  All  the  same,  if  you  gents  want  to 
chew  the  fat  with  this  feller  I'm  goin'  slummin' 
with  me  friend  Joey  Mouthgargle  Nabisco 
Whoozis.  Then  I  won't  be  round  here  to  make 
no  sour-caustic  remarks  and  gum  up  yer  party." 

"Might  be  a  good  idea,"  McKay  conceded. 

"There  he  is  now,  the  liT  darlin'!  Hullo, 
Joey,  old  sock!  Stick  around  a  minute  while  I 
scoop  a  few  more  beans.  Be  with  ye  toot  sweet — 
vite— presto— P.  D.  Q." 

Wherewith  he  demolished  the  rest  of  his  meal 
with  military  dispatch,  proceeded  doorward, 
smote  the  grinning  army  of  Remate  de  Males  a 
buffet  on  the  shoulder,  and  vanished  into  the 
night.  A  moment  later  his  stentorian  voice  rolled 
back  through  the  nocturnal  racket  in  an  im 
promptu  paraphrase  of  an  old  and  highly  im 
proper  army  song: 

"We're  in  the  jungle  now, 
We  ain't  behind  the  plow; 

We'll  never  git  rich, 

We'll  die  with  the  itch. 
We're  in  the  jungle  now!" 


CHAPTER  IV.    THE  GERMAN 

THE  door  of  the  German's  room  opened. 
The  German  came  out  and  marched  to 
the  table.     Two  paces  away  he  halted 
and   faced   the  Americans,   ready  to  speak  if 
spoken  to,  equally  ready  to  sit  and  ignore  them 
if  not  greeted.    McKay  and  Knowlton  rose. 

"Herr  von  Schwandorf?"  inquired  Knowlton. 

"Schwandorf.  Neither  Herr  nor  von.  Plain 
Schwandorf." 

The  reply  came  in  excellent  English,  though 
with  a  slight  throaty  accent. 

"Knowlton  is  my  name.  Mr.  McKay.  The 
third  member  of  our  party,  Mr.  Ryan,  has  just 
left." 

Schwandorf  bowed  stiffly  from  the  waist. 

"It  is  a  pleasure  to  meet  you.  White  men  are 
all  too  few  here." 

Seating  himself  at  a  place  beyond  that  just 
vacated  by  Tun,  he  continued,  "You  stay  here 
for  a  time?" 

"Not  long."  They  reseated  themselves.  "We 
go  up  the  river  as  soon  as  we  can  arrange  trans 
portation." 

The  black  brows  lifted  slightly. 

"It  is  a  dangerous  river.  You  would  do  well 
to  travel  elsewhere  unless  you  have  some  pressing 
reason  to  explore  this  stream." 


THE  GERMAN  29 

With  an  accustomed  sweep  of  the  hand  he 
shooed  the  flies  from  the  bean  dish  and  helped 
himself  to  a  big  portion.  Over  the  legumes  he 
poured  farinha  in  the  Brazilian  fashion. 

"We  have.  We  are  seeking  a  tribe  of  people 
who  paint  their  bones  red." 

Schwandorf's  hand,  conveying  the  first  mouth 
ful  of  beans  upward,  stopped  in  air.  His  black 
eyes  fixed  the  Americans  with  an  astounded 
stare.  He  lowered  the  beans,  stabbed  absently 
at  a  chunk  of  beef,  sawed  it  apart,  popped  a 
piece  of  it  into  his  mouth,  and  sat  for  a  tune 
chewing.  When  the  meat  was  down  he  spoke 
bluntly: 

"Are  there  not  ways  enough  to  kill  yourselves 
at  home  instead  of  traveling  to  this  place  to 
do  it?" 

McKay  smiled.  The  directness  of  the  man 
amused  him. 

"As  bad  as  that?"  asked  Knowlton. 

"As  bad  as  that.  Blow  your  head  off  if  you 
like.  Cut  your  throat.  Take  poison.  Jump  into 
the  river  among  the  alligators.  Step  on  a  snake. 
But  keep  away  from  the  Red  Bones." 

"Why?"  shot  McKay. 

"Cannibals — and  worse." 

"Worse?" 

"Truly.  Most  of  the  Brazilian  savages  do  not 
torture.  The  Red  Bones  do." 

"Pleasant  prospect." 

"Very.     Nothing  to  be  gained  among  them, 


30  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

either.  If  you're  hunting  gold,  try  the  hills  over 
west  of  the  Huallaga.  None  here." 

Knowlton  filled  and  lit  a  pipe.  McKay  slowly 
drank  the  last  of  his  syrupy  coffee  and  rolled  a 
cigarette.  Schwandorf  continued  shoveling  food 
into  his  capacious  mouth. 

"Know  anything  about  the  Raposa?"  Knowl 
ton  asked. 

The  Teuton's  eyelashes  flickered.  He  ground 
another  chunk  of  meat  between  his  jaws  before 
answering. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  then.  "Wild  dog.  Sharp 
snout,  gray  hair,  bushy  tail.  I've  shot  a  couple 
of  them." 

"This  one  is  a  man.  Green  eyes,  streak  of 
white  hair  over  the  left  ear.  Paints  himself  like 
the  Red  Bones,  as  you  call  them,  but  is  a  white 
man." 

"Oh!  That  one?  Heard  of  him,  yes.  Wild 
man  of  the  jungle.  Want  to  catch  him  and  put 
him  in  a  circus?" 

"Maybe.  We'd  like  to  see  him,  anyhow. 
Heard  about  him  awhile  ago.  Any  way  to  get 
him  that  you  know  of?" 

"Might  try  a  steel  trap,"  the  German  sug 
gested,  callously.  "But  I  don't  know  where 
you'd  set  it.  Best  way  to  get  a  wild  dog  is  to 
shoot  him,  and  he  isn't  much  good  dead.  Or 
would  this  one  be  worth  something — dead?"  A 
swift  sidelong  glance  accompanied  the  question. 

"Not  a  cent!"  snapped  McKay. 


THE  GERMAN  31 

"And  perhaps  he'd  be  worth  nothing  alive," 
added  Knowlton.  "But  we  have  a  healthy 
curiosity  to  look  him  over.  Guess  the  Red  Bone 
country  would  be  the  likeliest  place.  How  far 
is  it  from  here?" 

"Keep  out  of  it,"  was  the  stubborn  reply. 

The  Americans  rose. 

"We  are  not  going  to  keep  out  of  it,"  Knowl 
ton  declared,  coldly.  "We  are  going  straight 
into  it.  Thank  you  for  your  assistance." 

"Not  so  fast,"  Schwandorf  protested.  "If  you 
are  determined  to  go  I  will  help  you  if  I  can. 
Shall  we  sit  on  the  piazza  with  a  small  bottle  to 
aid  digestion?  So!  Thomaz!  Bring  from  my 
stock  the  kiimmel.  Or  would  you  prefer  whisky, 
gentlemen?" 

"Ginger-ale  highballs  are  my  favorite  fruit," 
admitted  Knowlton.  "Can  ginger  ale  be  bought 
here?" 

"Indeed  yes.    At  one  milrei  a  bottle." 

"Cheap  enough.  Thomaz,  three  bottles  of  gin 
ger  ale  and  one  of  North  American  whisky — the 
best.  Cigars  also.  Out  on  the  piazza." 

"Si,  senhores." 

Schwandorf  got  up. 

"If  you  will  pardon  me,  I  will  drink  my  kum- 
mel.  Frankly,  I  do  not  like  whisky." 

"And  frankly,  we  do  not  like  kummel.  All  a 
matter  of  taste." 

"Truly.  So  let  each  of  us  drink  his  own  prefer 
ence.  I  will  join  you  in  a  moment." 


32  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

The  Americans  sauntered  to  the  door,  while 
the  German  strode  into  his  room. 

"Blunt  sort  of  cuss/'  Knowlton  commented. 

"Ay,  blunt.  But  not  candid.  Knows  more 
than  he's  telling." 

Disposing  themselves  comfortably,  they  sat 
watching  the  lights  of  the  town  and  the  jungle — 
the  first  pouring  from  windows  and  open  doors, 
the  latter  streaking  across  the  darkness  where  the 
big  fire  beetles  of  the  tropics  winged  their  way. 
As  Knowlton  had  predicted,  the  night  noise  of 
forest  and  stream  had  diminished;  but  now  from 
the  village  itself  rose  a  new  discord — a  babel  of 
vocal  and  instrumental  efforts  at  music  emanat 
ing  from  the  badly  worn  records  of  dozens  of 
cheap  phonographs  grinding  away  in  the  stilt- 
poled  huts. 

"Good  Lord!"  groaned  McKay.  "Even  here 
at  the  end  of  the  world  one  can't  get  away  from 
those  beastly  instruments." 

A  throaty  chuckle  from  the  doorway  followed 
the  words.  Schwandorf  emerged,  carrying  a  big 
bottle. 

"Yet  there  is  one  thing  to  be  thankful  for, 
gentlemen,"  he  said.  "In  all  this  town  there  is 
not  one  man  who  attempts  to  play  a  trombone." 

The  others  laughed.  Thomaz  appeared  with 
bottles  and  thick  cups.  Corks  were  drawn, 
liquids  gurgled,  matches  flared,  cigars  glowed. 
Without  warning  Schwandorf  shot  a  question 
through  the  gloom: 


THE  GERMAN  33 

"Have  you  seen  Cabral — the  superintendent?" 

"Yes." 

"Ask  him  about  the  wild  man?" 

"Yes." 

"Get  any  information?" 

"Nothing  definite.  He  suggested  that  we  see 
you." 

"So." 

A  pause,  while  Schwandorf's  cigar  end  glowed 
like  a  flaming  eye. 

"The  Red  Bones  live  well  up  the  river,"  he 
began,  abruptly.  "Twenty-four  days  by  canoe, 
five  days  through  the  bush  on  the  east  shore. 
That  would  bring  you  to  their  main  settlement — 
if  you  were  not  wiped  out  before  then.  They're 
a  big  tribe,  as  tribes  go.  Ever  been  here  before?" 

"No.  Not  here,"  Knowlton  told  him.  "I've 
been  hi  Rio,  and  McKay  here  has  knocked  around 
in—" 

A  stealthy  kick  from  McKay  halted  him  an 
instant.  Then,  deftly  shifting  the  sentence,  he 
concluded,  " — in  a  number  of  places." 

"So."  Another  pause.  "Then  I  should  ex 
plain  about  tribes.  Tribes  here  generally  con 
sist  of  from  fifty  to  five  hundred  or  more  persons 
living  in  big  houses  called  'malocas.'  Unless  the 
tribe  is  very  big,  one  house  holds  them  all. 
There  may  be  any  number  of  malocas,  the  in 
habitants  of  which  are  all  of  the  same  racial 
stock;  yet  each  maloca  is,  as  far  as  government 
is  concerned,  a  tribe  to  itself,  controlled  by  a 


34  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

chief.  No  maloca  owes  any  duty  to  any  other 
maloca.  There  is  no  supreme  ruler  over  all,  nor 
even  a  federation  among  them.  They  live 
merely  as  neighbors — distant  neighbors.  At  times 
they  fight  like  neighbors.  You  understand." 

"'When  Greek  meets  Greek — '"  quoted 
McKay. 

"Just  so.  When  I  say,  then,  that  the  Red 
Bones  are  a  big  tribe,  I  mean  that  there  are  about 
five  hundred — maybe  more — individuals  in  their 
main  settlement.  They  live  in  huts,  not  in  one 
big  tribe-house  like  the  Mayorunas.  They  are 
not  Mayorunas,  in  fact;  they  paint  differently, 
are  darker  of  skin,  and  more  cruel. 

"The  Mayorunas,  by  the  way,  are  not  so 
debased  as  you  might  think.  Though  cannibals, 
they  do  not  kill  for  the  sake  of  eating  'long  pig/ 
like  the  cannibals  of  the  South  Seas.  Neither  do 
they  eat  the  whole  body.  Only  the  hands  and 
feet  of  their  dead  enemies  are  devoured.  These 
are  carefully  cooked  and  eaten  as  delicacies  along 
with  monkey  meat,  birds,  fish,  and  other  things 
prepared  for  a  feast  in  honor  of  a  victory.  The 
eating  of  human  flesh  seems  to  be  symbolism 
rather  than  savagery.  Furthermore,  they  do  not 
range  the  jungle  hunting  for  victims.  They  eat 
only  those  who  come  against  them  as  enemies. 

"So  it  is  quite  possible,  you  see,  that  strangers 
might  go  among  them  and  escape  death.  It  would 
depend  largely  on  the  ability  of  the  strangers  to 
convince  the  savages  that  they  were  friends.  The 


THE  GERMAN  35 

difficulty  is  that  the  savages  consider  all  strangers 
to  be  enemies  until  friendship  is  proved." 

"A  sizable  difficulty,"  McKay  remarked. 

"Almost  insurmountable.  Yet  it  might  be  done. 
Mind,  I  speak  now  of  the  Mayorunas,  not  of  the 
Red  Bones.  I  tell  you  again  that  the  Red  Bone 
country  is  closed." 

"And  where  is  the  Mayoruna  region?" 

"In  the  same  general  section.  The  Mayorunas 
are  much  more  widely  distributed.  They  are  on 
both  banks  of  the  Javary  and  extend  as  far  west 
as  the  Ucayali. 

"Now  if  I  sought  to  enter  the  Red  Bone  region 
— and  again  I  say  I  would  not — this  would  be 
my  way  of  going  at  it.  I  would  go  first  among 
the  Mayorunas  near  the  Red  Bones  and  seek  to 
convince  them  that  I  was  their  friend.  I  would 
make  the  Mayoruna  chief  as  friendly  to  me  as 
possible.  I  might  even  take  a  Mayoruna  woman 
for  a  time — some  of  them  are  handsome,  and 
such  a  step  would  make  me  almost  a  Mayoruna 
myself  in  their  eyes.  Then  I  would  persuade  the 
chief  to  send  messengers  to  the  Red  Bones  with 
word  of  me  and  a  request  that  I  be  allowed  to 
visit  their  settlement.  The  request,  coming  from 
the  Mayoruna  chief,  probably  would  be  granted. 
I  would  then  go  in  with  a  bodyguard  of  Mayo 
runas,  do  my  business,  and  come  out  via  the 
Mayoruna  route." 

A  thoughtful  silence  ensued.  Bottle  necks 
clinked  against  the  cups. 


36  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"Something  in  that  idea,"  conceded  Knowl- 
ton.  "A  good  deal  in  it.  Barring  the  woman 
part,  of  course." 

"Ay,"  spoke  McKay,  his  tone  casual  as  ever. 
"When  you  came  out  what  would  you  do  with 
your  woman,  mein  Herrf" 

Schwandorf,  tongue  loosened  a  bit  by  his 
kummel,  chuckled. 

"Ho-ho!  The  woman?  Leave  her,  of  course, 
when  she  had  served  my  purpose.  Why  bother 
about  a  woman  here  and  there?" 

"  I  see."  McKay's  face,  indistinct  in  the  gloom, . 
was  unreadable,  but  his  tone  had  a  caustic  edge. 

Schwandorf  laughed  again.  "You  are  fresh 
from  the  woman-worshiping  United  States  and 
you  disapprove.  But  this  is  the  jungle,  and  all  is 
different.  'Cada  terra  com  sen  uso,'  as  these 
Brazilians  say — each  land  with  its  own  ways. 
Perhaps  when  you  have  met  the  Mayoruna 
women,  looked  on  their  handsome  faces  and 
shapely  forms — they  wear  no  clothing,  by  the 
way — you  will  change  your  ideas.  More  than  one 
man  along  this  border  has  risked  his  life  to  win 
one  of  those  women.  But  that  rests  with  you. 
And  now  if  you  will  excuse  me,  gentlemen,  I  have 
an  engagement  with  a  man  at  the  other  end  of 
town." 

"Certainly.  We  are  indebted  to  you  for  your 
interest." 

"It  is  nothing.  Remember  that  I  strongly 
advise  you  not  to  go.  But  if  you  will  go,  I  shall 


THE  GERMAN  37 

gladly  do  whatever  lies  in  my  power  to  aid  you 
in  preparing  for  the  trip.   Do  not  hesitate  to  call 


on  me." 


He  passed  into  the  house,  returning  almost  at 
once. 

"By  the  way,"  he  added,  "one  of  you  has  the 
room  next  mine?" 

"I  have  it,"  said  Knowlton. 

"Yes.  Are  you  a  good  sleeper?  I  sometimes 
snore  most  atrociously,  I  am  told.  So  perhaps — " 

"Don't  worry.  I  can  sleep  in  the  middle  of  a 
bombardment." 

"You  are  fortunate.  Good  evening,  gentle 
men." 

When  he  was  gone  they  sat  for  a  tune  smoking, 
sipping  now  and  then  at  their  highballs.  At 
length  McKay  said,  "Humph!" 

"Amen.  Pretty  square  sort  of  chap,  though, 
don't  you  think?" 

"I'm  not  saying,"  was  the  Scot's  cautious 
answer.  "Seems  to  be  trying  to  discourage  us 
and  egg  us  on  at  the  same  time.  Something  up 
his  sleeve,  perhaps." 

"Can't  tell.  But  his  line  of  talk  rings  true  so 
far.  Checks  up  all  right  with  what  we've  heard 
about  the  Mayorunas  and  so  on.  And  that 
scheme  of  working  in  through  the  Mayoruna 
country  sounds  about  as  sensible  as  anything. 
Desperate  chance  and  all  that,  but  it  might  work. 
Say,  why  did  you  kick  me  when  I  was  going  to 

tell  him  you'd  been  in  British  Guiana?" 
4 


38  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"Don't  know  exactly.  Had  a  hunch.  Seems 
to  me  I've  seen  that  fellow  before  somewhere,  but 
I  can't  place  him.  None  of  his  business  where 
I've  been,  anyhow.  We're  boobs  from  the 
States  hunting  for  a  wild  man.  That's  all  he 
needs  to  know." 

But  it  was  not  enough  for  Schwandorf  to 
know.  At  that  very  moment  he  was  on  his  way 
to  the  home  of  Superintendent  Cabral,  with 
whom  he  had  no  engagement  whatever,  to  learn 
all  he  could  concerning  the  business  of  these  mili 
tary-appearing  strangers;  also  to  impress  on 
that  official  the  fact  that  he  had  sought  to  dis 
suade  them  from  starting  on  their  mad  quest. 

And  much  later  that  night,  when  Knowlton 
was  making  good  his  boast  that  he  was  a  sound 
sleeper,  a  black-bearded  face  rose  silently  above 
the  iron  partition  between  his  room  and  that  of 
the  German.  A  hand  gripping  a  small  electric 
flashlight  followed.  A  white  ray  searched  the 
room,  halting  on  the  khaki  shirt  lying  over  a  box. 
A  tough  withe  with  a  barb  at  one  end  came 
over  like  a  slender  tentacle,  hooked  the  shirt 
neatly,  drew  it  stealthily  up  to  the  top.  Shirt, 
stick,  lamp,  hand,  face  all  dissolved  into  darkness. 

After  a  time  they  reappeared.  The  shirt  came 
down,  swung  slowly  back  and  forth,  was  dropped 
deftly  where  it  had  previously  lain.  The  breast 
pocket  holding  the  grain-leather  notebook  and 
the  photograph  of  David  Dawson  Rand  was  but 
toned  as  it  had  been,  and  the  notebook  bulged 


THE  GERMAN  39 

the  cloth  slightly  as  before.  But  the  contents  of 
that  book  and  the  pictured  face  of  Rand  now  were 
stamped  on  the  brain  of  Schwandorf .  A  sneering, 
snarling  smile  curled  the  heavy  mouth  of  Schwan 
dorf.  And  softly,  so  softly  that  none  could  hear 
it  but  himself,  sounded  the  ironical  benediction  of 
Schwandorf: 

"Sleep  well,  offizier  americanisch!  Dream  on, 
poor  fool!  In  time  you  will  wake  up.  Ja,  you 
will  wake  up!" 


CHAPTER  V.     INTO  THE  BUSH 

SLEEPY  EYED  and  frowzy  haired,  with  shirt 
unbuttoned  and  breeches  and  boots  un 
laced,  Tun  emerged  from  his  iron-walled 
cell  into  the  cool-shadowed  main  room,  blinked 
at  McKay  and  Knowlton  lounging  over  their 
morning  coffee  and  cigarettes,  stretched  his  harry 
arms,  and  advanced  sluggishly  to  the  table. 

" Yow-oo-hum!"  he  yawned.  "Ain't  they  cute! 
All  dressed  and  shaved  like  they  was  goin'  to 
visit  the  C.  0.  And  here's  pore  Timrny  Ryan 
lookin'  like  a  'drunk  and  dirty'  jest  throwed 
into  the  guardhouse,  and  feelin'  worse.  Top  o' 
the  mornin'  to  ye,  gents!" 

"Same  to  you,  Tun,"  McKay  nodded. 

"Who  hit  you?"  asked  Knowlton,  squinting 
at  bumps  and  scratches  on  Tim's  forehead. 

"Nobody.  Couple  fellers  tried  to,  but  they 
was  out  o'  luck.  Oh,  I  see  what  ye  mean!  I  done 
that  meself  while  I  was  gittin'  to  bed." 

"Waves  must  have  been  running  high  on  the 
ocean  last  night.  Better  drink  some  coffee. 
Thomaz,  another  cup — big  and  black." 

"Thanks,  Looey.  'Twas  kind  of  an  active 
night,  at  that." 

"I  heard  you  come  in,"  vouchsafed  McKay. 
"Were  you  trying  some  high  diving  in  your 
room?" 


INTO  THE  BUSH  41 

"Faith,  I  done  some  divin'  without  tryin', 
but  'twas  ragged  work — I  pulled  a  belly  smacker 
every  time.  I  got  to  tame  that  hammick  o'  mine. 
It  thro  wed  me  four  times  hand-runnin',  and  the 
only  way  I  could  hold  it  down  was  to  unhook  it 
and  lay  it  on  the  floor." 

"Sleep  well  then?" 

"I  did  not.  Cap,  I  thought  I  knowed  somethin* 
about  cooties,  but  I  take  it  back — I  never  knowed 
nothin'  about  them  insecks  till  last  night.  Where 
they  come  from  I  dunno,  but  I'll  tell  the  world 
they  come,  and  if  they  wasn't  half  an  inch  long 
I'll  eat  'em.  They  darn  near  dragged  me  off 
whole,  and  all  the  sleep  I  got  ye  could  stick  in  a 
flea's  eye.  Lookit  here." 

He  extended  an  arm  dotted  with  swollen  red 
spots. 

"Ants!"  said  McKay,  after  one  glance.  "Ants, 
not  cooties.  They're  everywhere.  Especially 
under  the  floor.  That's  one  reason  why  folks 
sleep  in  hammocks  down  here.  Even  then  they're 
likely  to  come  down  the  hammock  cords  and 
drive  you  out." 

"Ants,  hey?  Never  thought  o'  that.  And  I'd 
sooner  spend  another  night  fightin'  all  the  man- 
eatin'  j aggers  in  the  jungle  than  them  bugs.  It's 
the  little  things  that  count,  as  the  feller  said 
when  his  wife  give  him  his  fourteenth  baby." 

He  downed  the  thick  coffee  brought  by  Thomaz, 
demanded  another  cup,  accepted  cigarette  and 
light  from  Knowlton,  and  sighed  heavily. 


42  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"Who  tried  to  hit  you?"  Knowlton  persisted. 

"Aw,  I  dunno.  Two-three  fellers  took  swipes 
at  me  with  bottles  and  things.  Me  and  Joey 
went  to  a  place  where  they's  card  games  and  so 
on — only  place  in  town  where  the  village  sports 
can  git  action.  Joey  offers  to  buy,  and  does. 
Stuff  tastes  kind  o'  moldy  to  me,  so  I  asks  have 
they  got  any  American  beer.  They  have.  It's 
bottled  and  warm,  but  it's  beer  and  tastes  like 
home.  It  goes  down  so  slick  I  buy  another  round, 
and  then  one  more,  lettin'  in  a  thirsty-lookin' 
stranger  on  the  third  round.  That  makes  seven 
bottles  altogether.  Then  I  think  mebbe  I  better 
pay  up  now  before  I  lose  track.  Looey,  guess 
what  them  seven  bottles  o'  suds  come  to  in  Amer 
ican  money." 

"M-m-m!  Well,  say  about  three  and  a  half 
or  four  dollars." 

"That's  what  I  figgered,"  mourned  Tim.  "But 
them  highbinders  want  thirty-two  dollars  and 
twenty  cents,  American  gold." 

"What!" 

"Sad  but  true.  Seems  the  stuff  sells  here  for 
four  bucks  and  sixty  cents  a  bottle.  Thinkin' 
I'm  gittin'  rooked  because  I'm  a  tenderfoot,  I 
raise  a  row  to  oncet  and  start  to  climb  the  guy. 
Other  folks  mix  in  and  things  git  lively  right  off. 
But  after  I've  dropped  a  couple  o'  fellers  Joey 
winds  himself  round  me  and  begs  me  not  to  make 
him  arrest  me,  and  also  tells  me  I'm  all  wrong — 
that's  the  regular  price.  So  o'  course  that  makes 


INTO  THE  BUSH  43 

me  out  a  cheap  skate  unless  I  come  acrost,  and  I 
do  the  right  thing." 

"Lucky  you  had  the  money  on  you,"  said 
McKay,  eying  him  a  bit  oddly. 

"I  didn't,"  chuckled  Tim.  "All  the  dough  I 
had  was  one  pore  lonesome  ten-spot — the  one  I 
got  from  ye  yesterday,  Cap.  But  I  don't  tell 
'em  that.  I  jest  wave  my  hand  like  thirty-two 
plunks  wasn't  nothin'  in  my  young  life,  and 
start  to  work  meself  out  o'  the  hole.  After  the 
two  guys  on  the  floor  are  brought  back  to  their 
senses  I  order  up  drinks  for  all  hands  and  git 
popular  again.  Then  I  git  out  the  bones." 

"Oh!    I  see!"    McKay  laughed  silently. 

"Sure.  Remember  they  told  us  on  the  boat 
that  these  guys  will  gamble  on  anything?  And 
that  a  feller  without  shoes  on  may  be  some  rub 
ber  worker  packin'  a  roll  that  would  choke  a 
horse?  Wai,  I  make  a  few  passes  with  them  dice 
o'  mine  and  their  eyes  light  up  like  somebody  had 
switched  on  the  current.  Then  I  scrabble  me 
hand  around  in  me  pants  pocket,  like  I  was  peel- 
in'  a  bill  off  a  roll  so  big  I  didn't  want  to  flash  the 
whole  wad,  and  haul  out  that  pore  liT  ten  and 
ask  would  anybody  like  to  play  a  man's  game. 

"They  would.  I'll  say  they  would.  And  they 
got  the  coin  to  back  up  their  play,  too.  Before  I 
come  home  I  was  buyin'  beer  by  the  case  instead 
o'  the  bottle.  And  it's  all  paid  for,  and  I  got 
more  'n  a  hundred  dollars  left,  besides  givin' 
Joey  a  fistful  o'  money  jest  for  bein'  a  good  feller. 


44  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

This  ain't  a  bad  town  at  all,  gents.  Outside  o' 
that  buckin' -broncho  hammick  and  the  man- 
eatin'  ants  I  had  a  lovely  evenin'." 

"How  about  Joao's  lady  friend?"  quizzed 
Knowlton. 

"Huh?  Oh,  I  didn't  git  to  see  her.  When  bones 
and  beer  are  rollin'  high  and  handsome  I  got  no 
time  for  women.  Besides,  I  found  out  she  was 
mostly  Injun  and  fat  as  a  hog.  Nothin'  like  that 
for  liT  Timmy  Ryan.  Oh,  say,  before  I  forgit 
it — I  asked  Joey  about  this  Dutchman  here,  and 
he  says — " 

McKay  scowled,  shook  his  head,  pointed 
toward  the  closed  door  of  Schwandorf .  Tun  lifted 
his  brows,  winked  understanding,  and  went  on 
with  a  break:  " — that  this  guy  Sworn-off  is  a 
reg'lar  feller  and  knows  this  river  like  a  book. 
Says  he's  one  fine  guy  and  a  man  from  hair  to 
heels." 

Following  which  he  grimaced  as  if  something 
smelled  bad,  adding  in  a  barely  audible  whisper, 
"And  that's  the  worst  lie  I  ever  told." 

"We  met  Mr.  Schwandorf  last  night  after  you 
went,"  Knowlton  said,  easily,  drawing  down  one 
eyelid.  "  Very  likable  sort  of  chap.  He's  going  to 
help  us  get  started  upriver." 

"Uh-huh.   When  do  we  go?   To-day?" 

"If  possible." 

"Glad  of  it.  This  big-town  sportin'  life  would 
be  the  ruination  of  a  simple  country  kid  like  me. 
Yo-hum!  Wonder  how  all  our  neighbors  are  this 


INTO  THE  BUSH  45 

mornin' — the  goat  and  the  drunk  and  the  two 
sick  fellers.  Kind  o'  quiet  over  that  side  o'  the 
room." 

Thomaz  entered  just  then  with  more  coffee. 
Knowlton  turned  to  him. 

"Are  the  sick  men  better  to-day,  Thomaz?" 

"Much  better,  senhor,"  the  lad  said,  carelessly. 
"They  are  dead." 

"Huh?"  Tim  grunted,  explosively. 

"Dead,"  the  youth  repeated.  "They  were 
taken  out  at  dawn.  Do  not  be  alarmed.  It  was 
the  swamp  fever,  which  is  not — what  you  say? — 
catching." 

"Humph!  Sort  of  a  reg'lar  thing  to  die  of  fever 
here,  hey?" 

Thomaz  shrugged  as  if  hearing  a  foolish  ques 
tion. 

"Si.  Swamp  fever,  yellow  fever,  smallpox,  beri 
beri — to-day  we  live,  to-morrow  we  are  dead." 

"True  for  ye.  They's  allays  somethin'  hidin* 
round  the  corner  waitin'  to  jump  ye,  no  matter 
where  ye  are.  If  'tain't  one  thing,  it's  another." 

Despite  his  philosophical  answer,  however,  Tun 
fell  silent,  his  eyes  going  to  the  doors  of  the  rooms 
where  Death  had  stalked  last  night  while  he  was 
gambling.  Like  most  men  in  whose  veins  red 
blood  runs  bold  and  free,  he  had  no  fear  of  the 
sort  of  death  befitting  a  fighter — sudden  and 
violent — but  a  deep  repugnance  for  those  two 
assassins  against  which  a  victim  could  not  fight 
back — disease  and  poison.  The  Brazilian  youth's 


46  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

nonchalant  fatalism  aroused  him  to  the  fact  that 
here  both  those  forms  of  death  were  very  near 
him;  the  one  in  the  air,  the  other  on  the  ground — 
fever  and  snakes. 

For  the  moment  he  was  depressed.  Then  curi 
osity  awoke. 

"If  this  here,  now,  Javary  fever  ain't  catchin', 
how  does  a  feller  git  it?" 

"Mosquitoes,"  McKay  enlightened  him.  "The 
anopheles.  It  bites  a  man  who  has  fever,  then 
bites  a  well  man  and  leaves  the  fever  in  him. 
Inside  of  ten  days  he's  sick,  unless  he  takes  a 
huge  dose  of  quinine  right  away.  Mosquito 
attacks  perpendicular  to  the  skin.  That  is,  it 
stands  on  its  head.  If  you  ever  notice  one 
of  them  biting  that  way  get  busy  with  the 
quinine." 

"Huh!  Fat  chance  a  feller's  got  o'  seein'  just 
how  all  these  bugs  bite  him.  And  one  muskeeter 
standin'  on  its  head  does  all  that,  hey?" 

"So  they  say.  Also  they  say  it's  only  the 
female  that  bites." 

"Yeah.  I  believe  it.  I  been  stung  more  'n 
once  by  females  before  now.  How  about  the 
yeller  fever?  Git  that  the  same  way?" 

"Same  way,  only  a  different  mosquito — the 
stegomyia.  When  you  begin  to  vomit  black 
you're  gone.  And  if  you  get  beriberi  you're 
gone,  too.  First  symptoms  of  that  are  numbness 
of  the  fingers  and  toes.  Muscular  paralysis  goes 
on  until  your  heart  stops." 


INTO  THE  BUSH  47 

"Uh-huh.  Nice  cheerful  place  to  die  in,  this 
Ammyzon  jungle.  Aw  well,  what's  the  odds?" 

Wherewith  he  inhaled  more  coffee,  nipped  his 
cigarette  butt  at  a  small  lizard  on  the  floor  not 
far  away,  yawned  once  more,  and  swaggered  out 
to  the  piazza,  bawling: 

"And  when  I  die    * 

Don't  bury  me  a-tall,  I 
But  pickle  me  bones 
In  alky-hawl — " 

When  his  roar  had  subsided  and  the  two  for 
mer  officers  had  sat  silent  a  moment,  smiling 
over  his  nocturnal  adventures,  the  door  of 
Schwandorf's  room  opened  abruptly  and  the 
German  stepped  out. 

"M  or  gen"  he  grunted,  striding  to  the  table. 
"Thomaz!" 

"Si,  Senhor  Sssondoff."  The  youth  faded 
away  into  the  kitchen  quarters. 

"Always  feel  grumpy  until  I  eat,"  grumbled 
the  blackbeard.  "None  of  this  coffee-cigarette 
breakfast  for  me.  A  real  meal,  coffee  with  gin  in 
it,  a  cigar — then  I  feel  human.  Sleep  well?" 

His  bold  gaze  never  flickered  as  it  encountered 
Knowlton's. 

"Fine.  If  you  snored  I  didn't  know  it.  Didn't 
hear  the  bodies  taken  out  this  morning,  either." 

"Bodies!  Oh!  Those  fellows  dead?"  He 
tilted  his  head  toward  the  doors  behind  which 
the  sick  men  had  lain.  "Glad  of  it.  Best  for 


48  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

them  and  everybody  else.  Hate  to  have  sick 
people  in  the  place." 

The  Americans  said  nothing.  They  lit  new 
cigarettes  and  waited  for  the  other  to  become 
"human."  And  when  his  substantial  breakfast 
was  down,  his  gin-flavored  coffee  had  disappeared, 
and  his  big  cigar  was  aglow,  he  did. 

"Well,  gentlemen,  have  you  decided  to  take 
good  advice  and  let  your  Raposa  alone?"  he 
asked,  affably. 

"Who  ever  follows  good  advice?"  Knowlton 
countered.  Schwandorf  chuckled. 

"Niemand.  Nobody.  So  you  will  go."  He 
shook  his  head  solemnly.  "I  have  said  all  I  can 
without  offense.  But  if  you  persist  I  can  only 
help  you  to  start.  If  possible  I  should  like  to  go 
with  you  up  the  river  to  the  place  where  you  will 
take  to  the  bush;  but  I  must  go  to  Iquitos,  in 
Peru,  on  the  monthly  launch  which  is  due  in  a 
day  or  two,  so  all  my  business  is  in  the  other 
direction.  If  now  I  can  aid  in  the  matter  of  a 
crew — " 

"That  is  what  we  were  about  to  ask  of  you." 

"So.  Then  let  us  be  about  it.  I  have  been 
thinking,  since  you  showed  your  determination 
last  night,  and  have  made  inquiries  about  men. 
There  are  now  in  Nazareth,  the  little  Peruvian 
town  across  the  river,  several  men  from  whom  you 
can  pick  an  excellent  crew.  Men  of  the  river 
and  the  bush,  not  worthless  loafers  like  these 
townsmen  here.  Men  who  are  not  afraid  of  hell 


INTO  THE  BUSH  49 

or  high  water,  as  the  saying  is.  Not  remarkable 
for  either  beauty  or  brains,  but  good  men  for 
your  work — by  far  the  best  you  can  obtain.  I 
would  suggest  a  large  canoe  and  six  or  eight  of 
those  men  as  crew." 

The  others  smoked  thoughtfully.  Then  McKay 
said,  "We  should  prefer  Brazilians." 

"Not  if  you  knew  the  people  hereabouts  as 
well  as  I.  It,  of  course,  makes  no  personal  dif 
ference  to  me  what  sort  of  crew  you  get,  but  I 
tell  you  that  these  men  are  best.  What  does  it 
matter  which  side  of  the  river  they  come  from? 
Men  are  men." 

"True,"  McKay  conceded. 

"Can't  be  too  fussy  here,"  Knowlton  added. 
"Let's  see  the  men." 

All  rose.    But  then  Schwandorf  suggested: 

"No  need  of  your  going  to  Nazareth.  Better 
stay  here,  unless  you  want  to  go  through  a  great 
deal  of  ceremonious  foolishness  over  there.  It's 
Peruvian  ground  and  the  barefooted  ignoramuses 
of  officials  may  insist  on  showing  their  importance 
by  demanding  your  papers  and  all  that.  I  can  go 
across,  get  the  men,  and  be  back  here  before 
you'd  be  half  through  the  preliminaries.  Saves 
time." 

"All  right,  if  it's  not  too  much  trouble." 

"A  good  deal  less  trouble  than  if  you  went,  to 
be  frank.  I'm  known,  and  I  can  go  straight 
about  the  business.  So  sit  down  and  wait. 
Thomaz!  My  hat!" 


60  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

Out  he  tramped  to  the  piazza,  where  he  paused 
a  moment  to  run  a  swift  eye  over  the  disheveled 
figure  of  Tim,  who  had  fallen  sound  asleep  in  a 
chair.  Then,  without  a  further  word  or  glance, 
he  descended  the  ladder  and  swung  away  down 
the  street.  The  Americans,  watching  him  from 
the  doorway,  observed  that  children  in  his  path 
hastened  to  get  out  of  it,  and  that  he  spoke  to 
nobody. 

"Prussian,"  rasped  McKay. 

"M-hm!  Done  time  in  the  Kaiser's  army,  too, 
even  if  he  has  been  here  since  before  the  war. 
But  he's  treating  us  pretty  white." 

The  captain  made  no  answer.  Their  eyes  fol 
lowed  the  big  figure  until  they  saw  it  go  sliding 
away  toward  Peru  in  a  canoe  propelled  by  two 
languid  townsmen.  Then  McKay  dropped  a 
hand  on  Tim's  shoulder.  The  red-lashed  eyes 
flew  open  instantly. 

Briefly,  quietly,  Knowlton  told  of  what  had 
passed  while  he  napped,  then  asked  what  infor 
mation  he  had  gleaned  from  Joao. 

"He  says,"  answered  Tim,  "  this  guy  is  a  queer 
duck.  Been  around  here  quite  a  while,  but  Joey 
don't  know  what's  his  game.  He  goes  off  on 
trips  upriver,  stays  quite  a  while,  comes  back 
unexpected,  and  nobody  knows  where  he's  been 
or  why.  He  don't  use  Brazilian  boatmen — gits 
his  men  on  the  other  side.  And  the  Peru  boys 
themselves  dunno  where  he  goes,  or,  anyways, 
they  say  they  don't. 


INTO  THE  BUSH  51 

"Two  of  'em  come  over  here  awhile  back  and 
got  drunk,  and  Joey  tried  to  pump  'em,  but  all 
the  dope  he  got  was  that  this  here  Fritz  goes 
away  upstream  to  a  liT  camp,  and  from  there  he 
goes  off  into  the  bush  alone,  and  the  Peru  guys 
jest  hang  around  the  camp  till  he  gits  back. 
Sounds  kind  o'  fishy  to  me,  and  Joey  says  it  does 
to  him,  too,  but  he  couldn't  work  nothin'  more 
out  o'  the  drunks  because  about  that  tune 
Sworn-off  himself  comes  buttin'  in  and  asks  these 
guys  what  they  think  they're  doin'  on  this  side 
the  river,  and  they  beat  it  back  to  Peru  toot 
sweet.  He's  got  their  goat,  all  right,  and  I 
wouldn't  wonder  if  he's  got  Joey's,  too.  Any 
ways,  Joey  tells  me  he's  off  this  geezer  and  advises 
me  to  lay  off  him,  too,  though  he  can't  name  a 
thing  against  him." 

"Queer,"  said  Knowlton,  looking  again  at  the 
canoe  out  on  the  water. 

"Gun  running?"  suggested  McKay. 

"Nope,"  Tun  contradicted.  "I  thought  o' 
that,  but  Joey  says  they's  nothin'  to  it;  they 
watched  this  sourkrout  close,  and  he  don't  never 
git  no  guns  from  nowheres.  Besides,  they's 
nobody  up  there  to  run  guns  to  but  Injuns,  and 
them  Injuns  are  so  wild  they  don't  want  no  guns; 
they  stick  to  the  bow  and  arrer  and  such  stuff, 
which  they  sure  know  how  to  use.  Whatever  his 
game  is,  he  plays  a  lone  hand  as  far's  this  town 
knows.  Got  no  pals  here,  and  nobody  wants  to 
walk  on  his  corns." 


52  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"May  be  perfectly  all  right,  too,"  mused 
Knowlton.  "A  little  gold  cache  or  something — 
though  he  said  there  was  none  in  this  region. 
Oh,  well,  what  do  we  care?  We  have  our  hands 
full  with  our  own  business,  and  all  assistance  is 
appreciated." 

An  hour  drifted  past.  Men  of  the  town  lounged 
by,  looking  curiously  at  the  strangers,  some  nod 
ding  and  voicing  a  friendly,  "Boa  dia"  Women, 
too,  watched  them  from  windows  and  doors,  and 
children  slyly  peeped  around  corners  until  some 
thing  more  important — such  as  a  cat,  a  goat,  or 
a  gorgeous  butterfly — came  their  way.  Tun  went 
inside  and  slicked  up  a  bit  by  buttoning  and  lacing 
his  clothes  and  combing  his  rebellious  hair.  At 
length  a  long  boat  put  out  from  the  farther  shore 
and  came  surging  across  the  sun-gleaming  river. 

"Handle  themselves  well,"  McKay  approved, 
noting  the  easy  grace  of  the  crew.  In  the  bow  a 
tall,  slender  fellow  stood  with  arms  folded,  bal 
ancing  himself  to  the  sway  of  the  rather  clumsy 
craft  and  watching  the  water  ahead.  In  the 
stern,  on  a  little  platform  whence  he  could  look 
over  the  heads  of  the  others  and  catch  any  signal 
from  the  lookout,  a  squat,  dark-faced  steersman 
lounged  against  his  crude  rudder.  Between 
these  two  the  paddlers  stood,  each  with  one  foot 
on  the  bottom  of  the  long  dugout  and  the  other 
on  the  gunwale,  swinging  hi  nonchalant  unison 
as  their  blades  moved  fore  and  aft.  Under  the 
curving  roof  of  a  rough-and-ready  cabin,  open  at 


INTO  THE  BUSH  53 

the  sides  to  allow  free  play  of  air,  Schwandorf 
lolled  like  some  old-time  barbarian  king. 

Down  to  the  landing  place  trudged  the  three 
Americans,  and  there  the  employers  and  the  pro 
spective  employees  looked  one  another  over  with 
interest.  Eight  men  had  come  with  Schwandorf, 
and  a  hard  gang  they  were.  The  bowman,  hawk 
nosed,  slant  eyed,  black  mustached,  with  hairy- 
chest  showing  under  his  unbuttoned  cotton  shirt, 
had  the  face  and  bearing  of  a  buccaneer  chief  tain; 
and  the  effect  was  intensified  by  a  flaring  red 
handkerchief  around  his  head  and  the  haft  of  a 
knife  protruding  from  his  waistband.  The  rowers 
behind  him,  though  of  varying  degrees  of  swarthi- 
ness  and  height,  all  had  the  same  sinewy  build> 
the  same  bold  stare,  the  same  devil-may-care 
insolence  of  manner;  and  though  none  but  the 
lookout  wore  the  piratical  red  around  his  brow5 
more  than  one  knife  hilt  showed  at  then*  waists. 
The  steersman,  whose  copper-brown  skin  and 
flat  face  betokened  a  heavy  strain  of  Indian 
blood,  gazed  stolidly  at  the  Americans  with  the 
unwinking,  expressionless  eyes  of  a  snake.  Back 
into  the  minds  of  McKay  and  Knowlton  came 
Schwandorf 's  words,  "Men  not  afraid  of  hell  or 
high  water."  They  looked  it. 

"Here  they  are,"  announced  the  German, 
stepping  ashore  deliberately.  "Jose*,  the  pun- 
tero" — his  hand  indicated  the  lookout — "Fran 
cisco,  the  popero" — pointing  to  the  steersman — 

"and  six  bogas.    Good  men." 
5 


54  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

McKay  ran  a  cold  eye  along  the  line  of  faces, 

his  gaze  plumbing  each.    Under  that  chill  scru 

tiny  the  third  man's  stare  wavered  and  dropped. 

,  That  of  the  next  also  veered  aside.     The  rest 

fronted  him  eye  to  eye. 

"Two  of  them  will  not  do,"  he  asserted,  hi  the 
brusque  tone  of  a  captain  inspecting  his  com 
pany.  "Numbers  Three  and  Four  —  fall  out!" 

Literal  obedience  would  have  put  Three  and 
Four  into  the  river,  wherefore  they  stood  fast. 
But,  though  they  did  not  quite  understand  the 
meaning  of  the  words,  they  grasped  the  fact  that 
they  were  not  wanted.  One  laughed  impudently, 
the  other  slid  a  poisonous  glance  at  the  bleak- 
faced  officer.  The  squat  Francisco  scowled.  So 
did  Schwandorf. 

"No  man  who  cannot  look  me  hi  the  eye  is 
needed  on  this  trip,"  McKay  declared.  "Also, 
six  men  are  enough.  If  necessary  we  will  bear  a 
hand  at  the  paddles  ourselves.  Jose",  you  have 
been  told  by  Senhor  Schwandorf  what  we  want?" 

"Si." 

"You  can  start  at  once?" 


What  pay?" 

We  leave  that  to  you." 

Um!   A  dollar  a  day  for  each  man?" 
"Money  or  goods?" 
"American  gold." 
"Si.    Bueno." 
"Very  well.     Take  those  two  men  back  to 


" 


INTO   THE  BUSH  55 

Nazareth,  get  what  belongings  you  need,  return 
here,  and  report  to  me  at  the  hotel.  I  am  captain. 
Understand?" 

11  Si— Capitan." 

"All  right.    On  your  way!" 

As  the  boat  drew  out  the  two  rejected  men 
bade  the  Americans  an  ironical  "adios,"  and  one 
spat  in  the  stream.  In  the  faces  of  the  others, 
however,  showed  something  like  respect  for  the 
crisp-spoken  captain,  and  Jose*  snarled  some 
thing  at  the  ill-mannered  Three  and  Four. 

"You  might  need  those  men,"  mumbled 
Schwandorf. 

"Guess  not,"  McKay  answered,  serenely,  turn 
ing  toward  the  hotel.  "  Come  on,  boys.  Let's  get 
our  stuff  ready  to  ride." 

Less  than  two  hours  later  their  rooms  were 
vacant,  their  duffle  was  stowed  hi  the  long  dug 
out,  the  Peruvian  crew  stood  arrogantly  eying 
the  Brazilians  who  had  gathered  to  witness  the 
departure,  and  the  Americans  were  bidding  good- 
by  to  Remate  de  Males  in  general  and  its  German 
resident  in  particular. 

"Mr.  Schwandorf,  we  thank  you  for  your 
efficient  aid,"  said  Knowlton,  extending  a  hearty 
hand.  "You  have  helped  us  to  get  going  with 
all  dispatch,  and  we  trust  that  we  can  repay  the 
favor  soon." 

"You  owe  me  no  thanks,"  was  the  curt  reply. 
"I  would  expect  you  to  do  as  much  for  me  if 
our  positions  were  reversed.  I  wish  you  luck." 


56  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"Get  aboard,  Tim!"  McKay  ordered,  setting 
the  example  himself.  Tim  obeyed,  first  giving 
the  important  Joao  d' Almeida  Magalhaes  Nabuco 
Pestana  da  Fonseca  a  real  American  handgrip 
and  getting  in  return  a  double  embrace  from  that 
worthy  official.  Whereafter  he  winked  and 
grinned  expansively  at  several  women  garbed 
hi  violent  hues  of  red,  yellow,  and  green,  frowned 
slightly  at  Schwandorf,  lit  the  last  cigar  he  was 
to  smoke  for  many  a  long  day,  and,  as  the  dugout 
began  to  move,  erupted  into  a  more  or  less  musical 
farewell  to  the  females  of  the  species: 

"The  Yanks  are  goin'  away, 

Pa-a-arley-voo ! 
They're  movin'  on  to-day, 

Pa-a-arley-voo! 

The  Yanks  are  goin'  away,  they  say, 
Leavin'  the  girls  in  a  heartless  way, 

Rinky  dinky-parley- voo ! ' ' 

With  one  final  wave  of  his  cigar  to  the  gesticu 
lating  Joao  and  the  grinning  women  he  turned 
his  back  on  the  town  and  faced  the  little-known 
river  and  the  inscrutable  jungle.  But  neither  his 
eyes  nor  his  thoughts  traveled  beyond  the  bow 
of  the  boat.  Through  narrowed  lids  he  studied 
the  swaying  paddlers  and  the  piratical  Jose".  And 
in  his  mind  echoed  the  whispered  warning  of 
Joao,  delivered  during  the  effusive  embrace  at 
parting: 

"Comrade,  watch  those  bastardos  Peruanos." 


CHAPTER  VI.    IN  THE  NIGHT  WATCH 

DAY  by  day  the  long  canoe  crawled  into  the 
vast  unknown.  Day  by  day  the  down- 
flowing  jungle  river  pushed  steadily,  sul 
lenly  against  its  prow,  as  if  striving  to  repel  the\ 
invasion  of  its  secret  places  by  the  fair-skinned 
men  of  another  continent.  Day  by  day  it  slid 
past  in  resentful  impotence,  conquered  by  the 
swinging  blades  of  the  Peruvian  bogas.  And  day 
by  day  the  close  companionship  of  canoe  and 
camp  seemed  to  weld  the  voyagers  into  one  com 
pact  unit. 

Through  hours  of  blazing  sun,  when  the  mer 
cury  of  the  thermometer  which  Knowlton  had 
hung  inside  the  shady  toldo  cabin  fluctuated  well 
above  100  degrees,  the  hardy  crew  forged  on. 
Through  drenching  rains  they  still  hung  doggedly 
to  their  work,  suspending  it  only  when  the  water 
fell  in  such  drowning  quantities  that  they  were 
forced  to  tie  up  hastily  to  shore  and  seek  cover 
'ji  order  to  breathe.  When  sunset  neared  they 
picked  with  unerring  eye  a  spot  fit  for  camping, 
attacked  the  bush  with  whirling  machetes,  cleared 
a  space,  threw  up  pole  frameworks,  swiftly 
thatched  them  with  great  palm  leaves,  and  thus 
created  from  the  jungle  two  crude  but  efficient 
huts — one  for  themselves  and  one  for  their 
patrones.  When  night  had  shut  down  and  all 


58  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

hands  squatted  around  the  fire  in  a  nightly  smoke 
talk  they  regaled  their  employers  with  wild  tales 
of  adventures  hi  bush  and  town,  some  of  which 
were  not  at  all  polite,  but  all  of  which  were 
mightily  interesting.  And  despite  all  discomforts, 
fatigue,  and  the  minor  incidents  and  accidents 
which  often  lead  fellow  travelers  hi  the  wilder 
ness  to  bickering  and  bitterness,  no  friction  devel 
oped  between  the  men  of  the  north  and  the  men 
of  the  south. 

Not  that  the  Peruvians  were  at  all  obsequious 
or  servile.  They  were  a  reckless,  lawless,  Godless 
gang,  perpetually  bearing  themselves  with  the 
careless  insolence  which  had  characterized  them 
at  first,  blasphemous  of  speech  toward  one  an 
other — but  never  toward  the  North  Americans. 
Disputes  arose  among  them  with  volcanic  sud 
denness,  and  more  than  once  knives  were  half 
drawn,  only  to  be  slipped  back  under  the  tongue- 
lashing  of  the  hawk-nosed  puntero,  Jose",  who 
damned  the  disputants  completely  and  promised 
to  cut  out  the  bowels  of  any  man  daring  to  lift 
his  blade  clear  of  its  sheath.  Five  minutes  after 
ward  the  fire  eaters  would  be  on  as  good  terms 
as  ever,  shrugging  and  grinning  at  their  passen 
gers — particularly  Tun,  who,  shaking  his  head 
disgustedly,  would  grumble: 

"Aw,  pickles!  Another  frog  fight  gone  bust!" 

Yet  Tim,  for  all  his  disparagement  of  these 

abortive  spats,  knew  full  well  that  any  one  of 

them  held  the  makings  of  a  deadly  duel  and  that 


IN  THE  NIGHT  WATCH  59 

Josh's  lurid  threats  were  no  mere  Latin  hyperbole. 
He  realized  that  the  red-crowned  bowman  ruled 
his  crew  exactly  as  any  of  the  old-time  buccaneers 
whom  he  resembled  had  governed  their  free- 
booting  gangs — by  the  iron  hand;  and  that, 
though  these  men  sailed  no  Spanish  Main  and 
flew  no  black  flag,  the  iron-hand  government  was 
needed.  He  saw  also  that  the  rough-and-ready 
courtesy  of  this  crowd  toward  their  passengers 
was  due  largely  to  the  attitude  of  Captain 
McKay,  who  had  enforced  their  respect  at  the 
start  by  his  soldierly  bearing  and  retained  it 
ever  since  by  his  military  management. 

For  the  captain,  experienced  in  directing  men, 
conducted  himself  at  all  times  as  a  commanding 
officer  should:  he  saw  all,  said  little,  treated 
Jos6  as  a  subordinate  officer,  and  left  the  handling 
of  the  crew  entirely  to  him.  His  aloofness  fore 
stalled  any  of  that  familiarity  which,  with  such  a 
gang,  would  have  led  to  contempt.  On  the  other 
hand,  his  avoidance  of  any  assumption  of  med 
dlesome  authority  prevented  the  irritation  and 
dislike  which  free  men  inevitably  feel  for  the 
self-important  type  of  leader.  Thus  he  cannily 
steered  himself  and  his  mates  between  the  two 
rocks  which  might  have  wrecked  the  expedition 
before  it  was  well  started.  And  Knowlton,  ex- 
lieutenant,  and  Tim,  ex-sergeant,  seeing  and  un 
derstanding,  followed  his  example. 

So  the  days  and  nights  rolled  by,  the  miles  of 
never-ending  jungle  shore  fell  away  behind,  and, 


60  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

save  for  the  occasional  outbreaks  between  mem 
bers  of  the  crew,  all  was  serene.  To  all  appear 
ances  the  Peruvians  were  whole-heartedly  inter 
ested  in  serving  their  employers  faithfully,  and 
the  North  Americans  were  gliding  onward  with 
no  thought  of  insecurity.  Yet  appearances  fre 
quently  are  deceptive. 

In  the  heat  of  the  day — hi  fact,  before  the  broil 
ing  sun  neared  the  zenith — Tun  and  Knowlton 
habitually  fell  asleep  inside  the  toldo,  not  to 
awake  until  two  hours  before  sunset,  when, 
according  to  the  routine  agreed  upon,  the  night's 
camping  place  would  be  sought  and  two  or  three 
of  the  Peruvians  would  go  into  the  bush  with 
rifles,  seeking  fresh  meat.  McKay  never  slept 
during  the  day's  traverse.  Nothing  escaped  his 
eye  from  the  time  when  he  emerged  from  his 
mosquito  net  in  the  misty  morning  until  he  en 
tered  it  again  by  firelight.  The  men  in  the  boat; 
the  floating  alligators  and  wading  birds  of  the 
water;  the  flashing  parrots,  jacamars,  toucans, 
trogons,  and  hummers  of  the  air;  the  yard-long 
lizards  and  nervous  spider  monkeys  of  the  tangled 
tree  branches  alongshore — all  these  he  watched 
quietly  as  the  boat  forged  on.  And  the  sinister 
Francisco,  watching  him  in  turn,  and  the  pad- 
dlers  throwing  occasional  glances  his  way,  came 
to  regard  him  as  the  only  alert  member  of  the 
trio.  Wherein  they  erred. 

The  truth  was  that  every  one  of  the  three 
adventurers  was  on  his  guard.  Tim  had  not  for- 


IN  THE  NIGHT  WATCH'  61 

.  j 

gotten  the  last  words  of  his  boon  companion, 
Joao,  and  at  the  first  opportunity  he  had  quietly 
passed  on  that  warning.  Moreover,  McKay  and 
Knowlton,  without  discussing  the  matter,  had 
meditated  on  the  unexpected  assistance  of 
Schwandorf,  the  speed  with  which  the  crew  had 
been  obtained,  the  promptness  of  Jose"  to  accept 
the  first  payment  offered,  and  other  things. 
Wherefore  it  had  come  about  that  at  no  hour  of 
the  twenty-four  was  every  eye  and  ear  closed. 
And  the  real  reason  why  red  Tim  and  blond 
Knowlton  slept  by  day  was  that  they  thus  made 
up  the  slumber  lost  at  night. 

Not  that  either  of  them  patrolled  the  camp  in 
sentry  go.  So  far  as  the  Peruvians  knew,  they 
slept  as  soundly  as  McKay.  But,  lying  in  their 
hammocks,  they  divided  the  night  watches  be 
tween  them  on  a  schedule  as  regular  as  that  of  a 
military  camp,  though  the  shifts  necessarily  were 
longer.  As  sunset  came  always  at  six  o'clock 
and  all  hands  sought  their  hanging  beds  two 
hours  later,  Tim's  "tour  of  duty"  lasted  until 
one  in  the  morning.  When  the  phosphorescent 
hands  of  his  watch  pointed  to  that  hour  he 
stealthily  reached  out  and  jabbed  Knowlton, 
sleeping  beside  him.  When  a  barely  audible 
"All  right"  reached  his  ears  he  was  officially 
relieved. 

Night  followed  night,  became  a  week,  length 
ened  into  a  fortnight.  Still,  so  far  as  the  crew  was 
concerned,  nothing  happened.  A  little  rough 


62  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

banter  among  them  as  they  smoked  their  last 
cigarettes,  then  sleep  and  snores;  and  that  was 
all  until  morning.  Men  less  experienced  in  night 
vigils  than  the  ex-soldiers  would  have  abandoned 
their  watches  long  before  this — if,  indeed,  they 
had  ever  adopted  them.  But  these  three  were 
schooled  in  patience.  Moreover,  neither  Tim  nor 
Knowlton  had  ever  before  penetrated  the  jungle, 
and  at  times  the  light  of  the  waxing  moon 
revealed  to  their  eyes  strange  things  which  they 
never  would  have  seen  by  day.  So  the  tedium 
of  the  long  hours  of  wakef ulness  might  be  broken 
at  any  moment. 

Once  they  camped  close  to  a  conical  hillock  of 
compact  earth,  some  four  feet  high  and  almost 
stone  hard,  from  which  radiated  narrow  covered 
galleries — the  citadel  and  viaducts  of  a  commu 
nity  of  termites.  Tim,  still  harboring  vivid  recol 
lections  of  his  ant  battle  at  Remate  de  Males — • 
though  by  this  tune  he  had  trained  himself  to 
sleep  in  his  hammock,  where  he  was  compara 
tively  safe — looked  askance  at  it  when  told  what 
it  was,  and  was  only  partly  reassured  by  the 
information  that  termites  were  eaters  of  wood 
rather  than  of  flesh.  After  sleep  had  embraced 
the  rest  of  the  camp  he  still  was  uneasy,  lifting 
his  net  at  long  intervals  and  squinting  at  the 
moonlit  mound  as  if  expecting  a  horde  of  pincer- 
jawed  insects  to  erupt  from  it  and  charge  him. 
And  during  one  of  these  inspections  he  saw  some 
thing  totally  unexpected. 


IN  THE  NIGHT  WATCH  63 

From  the  black  shadows  of  the  forest  had 
emerged  another  shadow,  so  grotesque  and  mis 
shapen  that  it  seemed  a  figment  of  indigestion 
and  weird  dreams — a  thing  from  whose  shaggy 
body  protruded  what  appeared  to  be  only  a  long 
tubular  snout  where  a  head  should  be,  and  which 
looked  to  be  overbalanced  at  the  other  end  by  a 
great  mass  of  hair.  It  stood  stone  still,  and  for 
the  moment  Tim  could  not  decide  which  end  of 
it  was  head  and  which  was  tail,  or  even  whether 
it  were  not  double-tailed  and  headless.  Then, 
slowly,  the  apparition  moved. 

Into  that  hard-packed  earth  it  dug  huge  hooked 
claws,  and  from  its  tapering  muzzle  a  wormlike 
tongue  licked  about,  gathering  the  outrushing 
white  ants  into  its  gullet.  For  minutes  Tim  lay 
blinking  at  it,  wondering  if  he  really  saw  it. 

Then,  picking  up  his  rifle,  he  slipped  outside  his 
net  and  advanced  on  the  creature. 

The  animal  turned,  sat  back  on  its  great  tail, 
lifted  its  terrible  claws,  and  waited.  Six  feet 
away,  just  out  of  its  reach,  Tim  stopped  and 
stared  anew.  Then  he  grinned. 

"You  win,  feller,"  he  informed  the  beast. 
"What  ye  are  I  dunno,  but  any  critter  that's 
got  the  guts  to  ramble  right  into  camp  and  offer 
to  gimme  a  battle  is  too  good  a  sport  for  me  to 
shoot.  Help  yourself  to  all  the  ants  in  the  world, 
for  all  o'  me.  I'm  goin'  back  to  bed.  Bon  sewer, 
monseer." 

Wherewith,  still  grinning,  but  warily  watch- 


64  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

ing,  he  backed  until  sure  the  big  invader  would 
not  spring  at  him.  Knowing  nothing  of  ant 
bears,  he  did  not  know  it  was  hardly  a  springing 
animal. 

Its  claws  looked  sufficiently  formidable  to  dis 
embowel  a  man — as,  indeed,  they  were,  if  the 
man  came  near  enough.  But  when  Tim  had 
withdrawn  and  the  sluggish  brute  had  decided 
that  it  would  not  need  to  defend  itself,  it  sank  to 
all-fours  and  passed  stiffly  away  into  the  shades 
whence  it  had  come. 

On  another  night,  when  Tim  slept,  Knowlton 
detected  a  creeping,  slithering  sound  which  made 
him  slip  off  the  safety  catch  of  his  heavy-bulleted 
pistol  and  peer  at  the  hut  where  slept  the  crew. 
No  man  was  moving  there.  Still  the  sound  per 
sisted.  Lifting  his  net,  he  spied  beyond  the  hut 
of  the  Peruvians  a  moving  mass  on  the  ground — 
a  cylindrical  bulk  which  looked  to  be  two  feet 
thick,  and  which  glided  past  like  a  solid  stream 
of  dark  water  flowing  along  above  the  dirt.  Its 
beginning  and  end  were  hidden  in  the  bush,  and 
not  until  it  tapered  into  nothing  and  was  gone 
did  he  realize  fully  that  he  had  been  gazing  at 
an  enormous  anaconda.  Then  he  kicked  himself 
for  not  shooting  it.  But  before  long  he  congratu 
lated  himself  for  letting  it  go. 

Perhaps  an  hour  later  the  startled  forest  re 
sounded  with  an  agonized  scream,  so  piercing 
and  so  appallingly  human  that  all  the  camp 
sprang  awake.  The  outcry  came  but  once,  sound- 


IN  THE  NIGHT  WATCH  65 

ing  from  some  place  not  far  off,  near  the  water's 
edge,  and  in  the  direction  toward  which  the  huge 
serpent  had  disappeared.  Before  the  watcher 
had  time  to  tell  the  others  of  what  he  had  seen, 
one  of  the  boatmen  discovered  the  rut  left  in 
the  soft  ground  by  the  reptile.  Thereafter  Knowl- 
ton  kept  his  own  counsel,  listening  to  the  excited 
curses  of  the  men  and  observing  their  pallor 
and  their  nervous  scanning  of  the  shadows.  Jose* 
said  the  screech  undoubtedly  was  the  death 
shriek  of  some  animal  caught  and  crushed  in  the 
snake's  tremendous  coil.  McKay  concurred  with 
a  nod.  And  when  Knowlton  casually  said  it  was 
tough  that  nobody  had  been  awake  to  shoot  the 
thing  as  it  passed  the  camp,  Jose"  emphatically 
disagreed. 

A  bullet  fired  into  that  fiendish  giant,  he 
averred,  would  have  meant  death  to  one  or  more 
men;  for  the  serpent's  writhing  coils  and  lashing 
tail  would  have  knocked  down  the  sleeping-hut 
and  shattered  the  spines  of  any  men  they  struck. 
No,  let  Sefior  Knowl-ton  thank  the  saints  that 
the  awful  master  of  the  swamps  had  gone  its 
way  unmolested.  For  the  rest  of  that  night 
Knowlton  kept  his  watch  openly,  accompanied 
by  Jose*  and  three  of  the  paddlers,  who  refused 
to  sleep  again  until  they  should  be  miles  away 
from  the  vicinity  of  that  dread  monster. 

Two  nights  afterward  the  camp  was  aroused 
again.  Tim  alone  saw  the  start  of  the  disturb 
ance,  and  he  kept  mum  about  it  because  he  did 


66  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

not  choose  to  let  the  Peruvians  know  he  had 
been  on  the  alert.  Out  from  the  gloom  and 
straight  past  the  huts  a  thick-bodied,  curve- 
snouted  animal  came  charging  madly  for  the 
river,  carrying  on  its  back  a  ferocious  cat  creature 
whose  fangs  were  buried  deep  in  its  steed's  neck 
— a  tapir  attacked  by  a  jaguar.  With  a  resound 
ing  plunge  the  elephantine  quarry  struck  the 
water  and  was  gone.  The  tiger  cat,  forced  to  re 
linquish  its  hold  or  drown,  swam  hurriedly  back 
to  the  bank  below  the  encampment,  where  it 
roared  and  spat  and  squalled  in  a  blood-chilling 
paroxysm  of  baffled  fury.  And  though  every 
man  was  awakened,  not  one  left  the  flimsy  shel 
ter  of  his  net.  Nor  did  anyone  so  much  as  speak 
until  Tim,  wearying  of  the  noise,  announced  his 
intention  to  "go  bust  that  critter  in  the  nose 
and  give  him  somethin'  to  yowl  about." 

The  proposal  met  with  instant  and  peremptory 
veto. 

"As  you  were!"  snapped  McKay.  "Let  him 
alone!  You  wouldn't  have  a  Chinaman's  chance 
in  that  black  bush.  A  jaguar  is  bad  all  the  time, 
and  when  he's  mad  he's  deadly.  Never  fool  with 
one  of  those  beasts,  Tim.  I've  met  them  before 
and  I  know  what  they  can  do." 

To  which  Jos6  agreed  with  many  picturesque 
oaths,  declaring  that  a  jaguar  was  no  mere 
beast — it  was  a  devil.  Tim,  grumbling,  obeyed 
orders.  The  jaguar,  hearing  their  voices, 
stopped  its  noise  and  probably  reconnoitered 


IN  THE  NIGHT  WATCH  67 

the  camp.  But  no  man  saw  the  brute,  and  its 
next  roar  sounded  from  some  spot  far  off  in 
the  jungle. 

Other  things,  too,  passed  within  Tun's  range 
of  vision  from  time  to  tune  hi  the  moonlit  hours: 
a  queer  bony  creature  which  he  took  for  some  new 
kind  of  turtle,  but  which  really  was  an  armadillo; 
a  monstrous  hairy  spider  which  slid  like  a  streak 
up  his  net,  hung  there  for  a  time,  decided  to  go 
elsewhere,  and  departed  with  such  speed  that  the 
man  inside  rubbed  his  eyes  and  wondered  if  he 
was  "seein'  things  that  ain't";  a  couple  of  vam 
pires  which  flitted  in  from  nowhere  like  ghoulish 
ghosts,  wheeled  and  floated  silently  on  wide  wings, 
seeking  an  exposed  foot  protruding  from  the 
hammocks,  found  none,  rested  a  moment  on  the 
roof  poles,  chirping  hoarsely,  and  veered  out 
again  into  the  night. 

To  Knowlton's  watch  came  a  strange  owl- 
faced  little  monkey  with  great  staring  eyes  and 
face  ringed  with  pale  fur — one  of  those  night  apes 
seldom  seen  by  man;  a  small  troop  of  kinkajous, 
slender,  long-tailed  animals  which  looked  to  be 
monkeys,  but  were  not,  and  which  leaped  deftly 
among  the  branches  like  frolicsome  little  devils 
let  loose  to  play  under  the  jungle  moon;  a  big' 
scaly  iguana,  its  back  ridged  with  saw  teeth  and 
its  pendulous  throat  pouch  dangling  grotesquely 
under  its  jaw;  and  more  than  one  deadly  snake 
and  huge  alligator,  the  first  gliding  past  with 
venomous  head  raised  and  cold  eye  glinting,  the 


68  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

second  lying  quiescent  except  for  occasional 
openings  of  horrific  jaws. 

To  the  ears  of  both  the  hammock  sentinels 
came  the  mournful  sounds  of  living  things  un 
seen.  From  the  depths  beyond  drifted  the  weird 
plaint  of  the  sloth,  crying  in  the  night,  "Oh  me, 
poor  sloth,  oh-oh-oh-oh!"  Goat  suckers  repeated 
by  the  hour  their  monotonous  refrains,  "Quao 
quao,"  or  "Cho-co-co-cao,"  while  a  third  ear 
nestly  exhorted,  "Joao  corta  pao!"  ("John, 
cut  wood!").  Tree  frogs  and  crickets  clacked 
and  drummed  and  hoo-hooed,  guaribas  poured 
their  awful  discord  into  the  air,  and  on  one 
bright  breathless  night  there  sounded  over  and 
over  a  call  freighted  with  wretchedness  and 
despair  —  the  wail  of  that  lonely  owl  known 
to  the  bushmen  as  "the  mother  of  the  moon," 
whose  dreadful  cry  portends  evil  to  those  who 
hear  it. 

Sometimes  the  air  shook  with  the  thunderous 
concussion  of  some  great  falling  tree  which,  long 
since  bled  to  death  by  parasitical  plant  growths, 
now  at  last  toppled  crashing  back  into  the  dank 
soil  whence  it  had  forced  its  way  up  into  a  place 
in  the  sun.  Other  noises,  infrequent  and  unex- 
plainable,  also  drifted  at  long  intervals  from  the 
mysterious  blackness.  And  in  all  the  medley  of 
night  sounds  not  one  was  cheerful.  The  burden 
of  the  jungle's  cacophonic  cantanta  ever  was  the 
same — despair,  disaster,  death. 

Then  came  the  fifteenth  day.    It  dawned  red, 


IN  THE  NIGHT  WATCH  69 

the  sun  fighting  an  ensanguined  battle  with  the 
heavy  morning  mists  and  throwing  on  the  faces 
of  the  early-rising  travelers  a  sinister  crimson 
hue.  Before  that  sun  should  rise  again  some  of 
those  faces  were  to  be  stained  a  deeper  red. 
6 


CHAPTER  VII.     COLD  STEEL 

OME  two  hours  after  the  start,  while 
Knowlton  and  Tim  loafed  at  the  fore  end 
of  the  cabin,  enjoying  the  comparative 
coolness  of  the  early  day,  another  boat  hove  in 
sight  up  ahead — a  longish  craft  manned  by 
eight  paddlers  and  without  a  cabin. 

As  it  came  into  view  its  bowman  tossed  his 
paddle  in  greeting.  The  Peruvians  ignored  the 
salutation.  The  bowman,  after  shading  his 
eyes  and  peering  at  the  flamboyant  figure  of 
Jose",  resumed  paddling  without  further  cere 
mony,  evidently  intending  to  pass  in  silence. 
But  then  McKay  arose,  waved  a  hand,  and  told 
Jose"  to  steer  for  the  newcomers.  Jose",  with  a 
slightly  sour  look,  gave  the  signal  to  Francisco, 
and  the  course  changed. 

The  other  canoe  slowed  and  waited.  Its  men 
watched  the  tall  figure  of  McKay.  Tun  and 
Knowlton  scanned  the  bronzed  faces  of  those 
men  and  liked  them  at  once.  The  paddlers  evi 
dently  were  Brazilians,  but  of  a  different  type 
from  the  sluggish  townsmen  of  Remate  de  Males 
— alert,  active-looking  fellows,  steady  of  eye, 
honest  of  face,  muscular  of  arm — in  all,  a  more 
clean-cut  set  of  men  than  the  Peruvians.  All 
three  of  the  Americans  noticed  that  no  word 
was  exchanged  between  the  two  crews. 


COLD   STEEL  71 

" Boa  dia,  amigos!"  spoke  McKay.  "Who  are 
you  and  whence  do  you  come?" 

"We  are  rubber  workers  of  Coronel  Nunes, 
senhor,"  the  bowman  answered,  civilly.  "We 
go  to  make  a  new  camp.  This  land  is  a  part  of 
the  seringel  of  the  coronel,  and  we  left  his  head 
quarters  yesterday." 

"Ah!    Then  the  headquarters  is  above  here?" 
"One  more  day's  journey,"  the  man  nodded. 
"I  thank  you.    Good  fortune  go  with  you." 
"And  with  you,  senhor.   May  Godprotectyou." 
With  the  words  the  Brazilian  glanced  along 
the  line  of  Peruvian  faces  and  his  eyes  narrowed. 
Though  his  words  were  only  a  respectful  fare 
well,  his  expressive  face  indicated  that  McKay 
might  be  badly  in  need  of  divine  protection  at 
no  distant  date.    As  his  paddle  dipped  and  his 
men  nodded  their  leave-taking,  Francisco,  the 
popero,  sneered  raucously: 

"Hah!    Mere  caucheros!    Workers!    Slaves!" 
And  he  spat  at  the  Brazilian  boat. 
Fire  shot  into  the  eyes  of  the  bowman  and  his 
comrades.    Their  muscles  tensed. 

"Better  be  slaves — better  be  dogs — than  Peru 
vian  cutthroats!"  one  retorted.  "Go  your  way, 
and  keep  to  your  own  side  of  the  river." 

"We  go  where  we  will,  and  no  misborn  Bra 
zilians  can  stop  us,"  snarled  Francisco.  To  which 
he  added  obscene  epithets  directed  against  Bra 
zilians  in  general  and  the  men  of  Coronel  Nunes 
in  particular. 


72  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

The  unprovoked  insults  angered  the  Americans 
as  well  as  the  Brazilians.  Knowlton  leaped 
through  the  toldo  and  confronted  Francisco. 

"Shut  your  dirty  mouth!"  he  blazed. 

For  reply,  the  evil-eyed  steersman  spat  at  him 
the  vilest  name  known  to  man. 

An  instant  later,  his  lips  split,  he  sprawled 
dazedly  on  his  platform,  perilously  close  to  the 
edge.  Knowlton,  the  knuckles  of  his  left  fist 
bleeding  from  impact  with  the  other's  teeth, 
stood  over  him  in  white  fury.  Francisco's  right 
hand  fumbled  for  his  knife.  Knowlton  promptly 
stamped  on  that  hand  with  a  heavy  boot  heel. 

"Good  eye,  Looey!"  rumbled  Tim's  voice  at 
his  back.  "Boot  him  some  more  for  luck.  Hey, 
you!  Back  up  or  I'll  drill  ye  for  keeps!"  This 
to  a  pan-  of  the  Peruvian  paddlers  who  had  come 
scrambling  through  the  cabin. 

After  one  searching  stare  into  Tim's  hard  blue 
eyes  and  a  glance  at  his  fist  curled  around  the 
butt  of  his  belt  gun,  the  bogas  backed  up.  A 
moment  later  they  were  thrown  boldly  into  their- 
own  part  of  the  boat  by  Jose",  who  blistered  them 
with  the  profanity  of  three  languages  at  once. 
Then  McKay  came  through  and  took  charge. 

"That  '11  do,  Tun!  Same  goes  for  you,  Merry! 
Jose",  I'll  handle  this.  You,  Francisco !  Get  up!" 

The  curt  commands  struck  like  blows.-  Every 
man  obeyed.  And  when  the  squat  steersman 
again  stood  up  McKay  went  after  him  roughshod. 
In  the  colloquial  Spanish  of  Mexico  and  the 


COLD  STEEL  73 

Argentine,  in  the  man  talk  of  American  army 
camps,  he  flayed  that  offender  alive.  Jose"  him 
self,  efficient  man  handler  though  he  was,  stared 
at  his  captain  in  awe.  And  Francisco,  though 
not  given  to  cringing,  skulked  like  a  beaten  dog 
when  the  verbal  flagellation  was  finished. 

Turning  then  to  the  Brazilians,  McKay  for 
mally  apologized  for  the  insults  to  them. 

"It  is  nothing,  senhor,"  coolly  answered  the 
bowman — though  his  glance  at  the  Peruvians 
said  plainly  that  it  would  have  been  something 
but  for  the  swift  punishment  by  the  Americans. 
"Again  I  say — may  God  protect  you!  Adeos!" 

The  Brazilian  boat  glided  away.  The  Peruvian 
craft  crawled  on  upstream  in  silence. 

When  the  next  camp  was  made  all  apparently 
had  forgotten  the  affair.  The  men  badgered  one 
another  as  usual,  though  none  mentioned  Fran 
cisco's  split  mouth;  and  Francisco,  himself,  albeit 
sulky,  betrayed  no  sign  of  enmity.  After  night 
fall  the  regular  camp-fire  meeting  was  held  and 
at  the  usual  tune  all  turned  in.  One  more  night 
of  listening  to  the  sounds  of  the  tropical  wilder 
ness  seemed  all  that  lay  ahead  of  the  secret 
sentinels. 

Sleep  enveloped  the  huts.  Snores  and  gurgles 
rose  and  fell.  Tim  himself,  for  the  sake  of  effect, 
snored  heartily  at  intervals,  though  his  eyes 
never  closed.  Through  his  mosquito  bar  he  could 
see  only  vaguely,  but  he  knew  any  man  walking 
from  the  crew's  quarters  must  cast  a  very 


74  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

visible  shadow  across  that  net,  and  to  him  the 
shadow  would  be  as  good  a  warning  as  a  clear 
view  of  the  substance.  But  the  hours  crept  on 
and  no  shadow  came. 

At  length,  however,  a  small  sound  reached  his 
alert  ear — a  sound  different  from  the  regular 
noises  of  the  bush — a  stealthy,  creeping  noise 
like  that  of  a  big  snake  or  a  huge  lizard.  It  came 
from  the  ground  a  few  feet  away,  and  it  seemed 
to  be  gradually  advancing  toward  his  own  ham 
mock.  Whatever  the  creature  was  that  made  it, 
its  method  of  progress  was  not  human,  but 
reptilian.  Puzzled,  suspicious,  yet  doubtful,  Tim 
lifted  the  rear  side  of  his  net,  on  which  no  moon 
light  fell.  Head  out,  he  watched  for  the  crawling 
thing  to  come  close. 

It  came,  and  for  an  instant  he  was  hi  doubt 
as  to  its  character,  for  around  it  lay  the  deep 
shadow  of  some  treetops  which  at  that  point 
blocked  off  the  moon.  It  inched  along  on  its 
stomach,  its  black  head  seeming  round  and 
minus  a  face,  its  body  broad  but  flat — a  thing 
that  looked  to  be  a  man  but  not  a  man.  Then, 
pausing,  it  raised  its  head  and  peered  toward 
the  hammock  of  Knowlton.  With  that  move 
ment  Tim's  doubts  vanished.  The  lifting  of  the 
head  showed  the  face — the  face  of  Francisco, 
the  face  of  murder.  In  its  teeth  was  clamped 
a  bare  knife. 

Forthwith  Tim  applied  General  Order  Number 
Thirteen. 


COLD  STEEL  75 

In  one  bound  he  was  outside  his  net,  colliding 
with  Knowlton,  who  awoke  instantly.  In  another 
he  was  beside  the  assassin,  who,  with  a  lightning 
grab  at  the  knife  in  his  mouth,  had  started  to 
spring  up.  Tim  wasted  no  time  in  grappling  or 
clinching.  He  kicked. 

His  heavy  boot,  backed  by  the  power  of  a 
hundred  and  ninety  pounds  of  brawn,  thudded 
into  the  Indian's  chest.  Francisco  was  hurled 
over  sidewise  on  his  back.  Another  kick 
crashed  against  his  head  above  the  ear.  He 
went  limp. 

"Ye  lousy  snake!"  grated  Tim.  "Crawlin'  on 
yer  belly  to  knife  a  sleepin'  man,  hey?  Blast 
yer  rotten  heart — " 

" What's  up?"  barked  McKay  from  his 
hammock. 

"Night  attack,  Cap.  If  ye' re  comin'  out  bring 
along  yer  gat.  Hey,  Looey,  got  yer  gun  on? 
Some  o'  these  other  guys  might  git  gay.  They're 
comin'  now." 

True  enough,  the  Peruvian  gang  was  jumping 
from  its  hut.  With  another  glance  at  the  pros 
trate  Francisco  to  make  sure  he  was  unconscious, 
Tim  whirled  to  meet  them,  fist  on  gun. 

"Halt!"  he  roared.  "First  guy  passin'  this 
corner  post  gits  shot.  Back  up!" 

The  impact  of  his  voice,  the  menace  of  his  ready 
gun  hand,  the  sight  of  Knowlton  and  McKay 
leaping  out  with  pistols  drawn,  stopped  the  rush 
at  the  designated  post.  But  swift  hands  dropped, 


76  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

• 

and  when  they  rose  again  the  moonlight  glinted 
on  cold  steel. 

"Capitan,  what  happens  here?"  demanded 
Jose,  ominously  quiet. 

"Knife  work,"  McKay  replied,  curtly.  "Your 
man  Francisco  attempted  to  creep  in  and  murder 
Senor  Knowlton.  If  you  and  the  rest  have 
similar  intentions,  now's  your  time  to  try.  If 
not,  put  away  those  knives." 

"Knives!    Par  Dios,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Look  behind  you." 

Jose"  looked.  At  once  he  snarled  curses  and 
commands.  Slowly  the  knives  slipped  out  of 
sight.  The  paddlers  edged  backward  to  their 
own  shack,  leaving  their  puntero  alone. 

"The  capitan  has  it  wrong,"  asserted  Jose". 
"We  awake  to  find  our  popero  being  kicked  in 
the  head.  We  want  to  know  why.  If  Francisco 
has  done  what  you  say  I  will  deal  with  him.  That 
I  may  be  sure,  allow  me  to  look." 

"Very  weU.     Look." 

Jose"  advanced,  stooped,  studied  the  ground, 
the  position  of  Francisco's  body,  the  knife  still 
clutched  in  the  nerveless  hand.  Tim  growlingly 
vouchsafed  a  brief  explanation  of  the  incident. 
When  Jose"  straightened  up,  his  mouth  was  a 
hard  line  and  his  eyes  hot  coals. 

"Si.  Es  verdad.  To-morrow  we  shall  have  a 
new  popero." 

With  which  he  stooped  again,  grasped  the  prone 
man  by  the  hair,  dragged  him  into  the  moonlit 


COLD  STEEL  77 

space  between  the  huts,  and  flung  him  down. 
"Juan,  bring  water!"  he  ordered. 

One  of  the  paddlers,  looking  queerly  at  him, 
did  so.  Jose  deluged  the  senseless  man.  Fran 
cisco,  reviving,  sat  up  and  scowled  about  him. 
His  eyes  rested  on  the  three  Americans  standing 
gjimly  ready,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  before  their 
hut;  veered  to  his  mates  bunched  in  sinister 
silence  beside  their  own  quarters;  shifted  again  to 
meet  the  baleful  glare  of  Jose".  His  hand  stole 
to  his  empty  sheath. 

"Your  knife,  Francisco  mio?"  queried  Jose", 
a  menacing  purr  in  his  tone.  "I  have  it.  It 
seems  that  you  are  in  haste  to  use  it.  Too  much 
haste,  Francisco.  But  if  you  will  stand  instead 
of  crawling  as  before,  you  may  have  your  knife 
again — and  use  it,  too." 

Francisco,  staring  sullenly  up,  seemed  to  read 
in  the  words  more  than  was  evident  to  the 
Americans.  He  lurched  to  his  feet,  staggered, 
caught  his  balance,  braced  himself,  stood  waiting. 

"You  know  who  commands  here,"  Jose*  went  on. 
"  You  disobey.  You  seek  to  stab  in  the  night — " 

"Now  or  later — what  is  the  difference?" 

" — and  now  the  boat  is  too  small  for  both  of 
us."  Jose"  ignored  the  interruption.  "Here  is 
your  knife.  Now  use  it!" 

He  flipped  the  weapon  at  the  other,  who  caught 
it  deftly.  Jose"  dropped  his  right  hand  to  his 
waist.  An  instant  later  naked  steel  licked  out 
at  Francisco's  throat. 


78  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

The  steersman's  knife  flashed  up,  caught  the 
reaching  blade,  knocked  it  with  a  scraping  clink. 
For  a  few  seconds  the  two  weapons  seemed 
welded  together,  their  owners  each  striving  to 
bear  down  the  other's  wrist.  Then  they  parted 
as  the  combatants  sprang  back. 

Jose"  side-stepped  twice  to  his  right.  Francisco, 
turning  to  preserve  his  guard,  now  had  the  light 
full  in  his  face.  But  the  moon  rode  so  high  that 
the  steersman's  disadvantage  was  negligible,  and 
the  next  assault  of  the  puntero  was  blocked  as 
before.  And  this  time  the  wrist  of  the  popero 
proved  a  bit  the  better;  he  threw  the  attacking 
steel  aside  and  struck  hi  a  slashing  sweep  at  his 
antogonist's  stomach. 

A  convulsive  inward  movement  of  the  bow 
man's  middle,  coupled  with  a  swift  back-step, 
made  the  slash  miss  by  a  hair's  breadth.  With 
the  quickness  of  light  Jose"  was  in  again.  His 
knife  hand,  still  outstretched  sidewise,  stopped 
with  a  light  smack  of  flesh  on  flesh.  Then  it 
jerked  outward.  His  steel  now  was  red  to  the 
hilt. 

One  more  rapid  step  back,  a  keen  glance  at 
his  opponent,  and  Jose"  stood  at  ease.  From 
Francisco  burst  a  bubbling  groan.  He  staggered. 
His  knife  dropped.  His  hands  rose  fumblingly 
toward  his  neck.  Suddenly  his  knees  gave  way 
and  he  toppled  backward  to  the  ground.  The 
silvery  moonlight  disclosed  a  dark  flood  welling 
from  his  severed  jugular. 


COLD  STEEL  79 

With  the  utmost  coolness  Jose"  ran  two  fingers 
down  his  wet  blade,  snapped  the  fingers  in  air, 
and  spoke  to  his  crew: 

"As  I  said,  we  shall  have  a  new  popero.  To 
morrow,  Julio,  you  will  take  the  platform." 

A  rumble  ran  among  the  men.  Their  eyes 
lifted  from  Francisco  to  the  Americans,  and  in 
them  shone  a  wolfish  gleam.  The  bowman 
turned  sharply  and  faced  them. 

"Who  growls?"  he  rasped.    "You,  Julio?" 

"Si,  yo  soy,"  Julio  answered,  harshly,  fingering 
his  knife.  "I  will  be  steersman,  but  I  steer 
downstream,  not  up.  Francisco  spoke  the  truth. 
Now  or  later — what  is  the  difference?  Let  it 
be  now!" 

A  louder  growl  from  the  others  followed  his 
words.  One  stepped  back  into  the  shadow  of 
the  hut. 

"Perros  amarillos!  Yellow  dogs!  You  go 
upstream,  fools!  The  Americans  must  be 
taken — " 

A  raucous  sneer  from  Julio  interrupted  him. 
Simultaneously  the  paddler's  hand  leaped  up 
ward,  poising  a  knife. 

"The  gringos  stay  here — and  you,  too,  you 
Yanqui  cur!" 

The  poised  knife  hissed  through  the  air  at  Jose". 

Out  from  the  crew  house  shot  a  streak  of  fire 
and  a  smashing  rifle  report. 

Jose"  dodged,  staggered,  screeched  in  feline 
fury,  the  knife  buried  in  his  left  arm. 


80  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

McKay  grunted  suddenly,  fell,  lay  still. 

"  God!  "yelled  Tim.  "Cap's  gone!  Clean 'em, 
Looey!" 

With  the  words  he  leaped  aside  and  pulled 
his  pistol,  just  as  another  rifle  flare  stabbed  out 
from  the  other  hut  and  a  bullet  whisked  through 
the  space  where  he  had  stood.  An  instant  later 
he  was  pouring  a  stream  of  lead  at  the  spot 
whence  the  burning  powder  had  leaped. 

Knives  flashing,  teeth  gleaming,  the  other 
paddlers  charged  across  the  ten-foot  space  be 
tween  the  huts. 

Jose",  his  left  arm  helpless,  but  his  deadly  right 
hand  still  gripping  his  knife,  hurled  himself  on 
Julio,  who  had  seized  a  machete  from  somewhere. 

Knowlton  slammed  a  bullet  between  the  eyes 
of  the  foremost  boga,  who  pitched  headlong.  He 
swung  the  muzzle  to  the  other  man's  chest — 
yanked  at  the  trigger — got  no  response.  The 
gun  was  jammed. 

With  a  triumphant  snarl  the  blood-crazed 
Peruvian  closed  in,  slashing  for  the  throat. 
Knowlton  slipped  aside,  evaded  the  thrust,  swung 
the  pistol  down  hard  on  his  assailant's  head. 
The  man  reeled,  thrust  again  blindly,  missed. 
Knowlton  crashed  his  dumb  gun  down  again. 
It  struck  fair  on  the  temple.  The  man  collapsed. 

Tim  was  charging  across  the  open  at  the  crew 
house.  Jose"  and  Julio  were  locked  in  a  death 
grapple.  No  other  living  man,  except  Knowlton, 
still  stood  upright.  Stooping,  he  peered  into  the 


COLD  STEEL  81 

red-dyed  face  of  McKay.  Then  he  laid  a  hand 
on  the  captain's  chest.  Faint  but  regular,  he 
felt  the  heart  beating. 

"Thank  God!"  he  breathed.  With  a  wary 
eye  on  the  battling  Peruvians  he  swiftly  raised 
the  captain  and  put  him  into  Tim's  hammock. 
As  he  turned  back  to  the  fight  Tim  emerged 
from  the  other  hut,  carrying  a  body,  which  he 
dropped  and  swiftly  inspected.  At  the  same 
moment  the  fight  of  Jos6  and  Julio  ended. 

With  a  choked  scream  Julio  dropped,  writhed, 
doubled  up.  Then  he  lay  still.  Jose",  his  face 
ghastly,  stared  around  him.  His  mouth  stretched 
in  a  terrible  smile. 

"So  this  ends  it,"  he  croaked,  his  gaze  dropping 
to  Julio.  " Adios,  Julio!  The  machete  is  not 
— so  good  as  the  knife — unless  one  has — room  to 
— swing  it — " 

He  chuckled  hoarsely  and  sank  down. 

For  an  instant  Knowlton  hesitated,  his  glance 
going  back  and  forth  between  McKay  and  Jose". 
Swiftly  then  he  ran  his  finger  tips  over  McKay's 
head.  With  a  murmur  of  satisfaction  he  turned 
from  his  comrade  and  hurried  to  the  motionless 
bowman,  over  whom  Tim  now  bent. 

"Bleedin'  to  death,  Looey,"  informed  Tim. 
"Ain't  cut  bad  excep'  that  arm.  That  flyin' 
knife  must  have  got  an  artery.  Can  we  pull 
him  through?  He's  a  good  skate." 

"I'll  try.  You  look  after  Cap.  He's  only 
knocked  out — bullet  creased  him — " 


82  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"Glory  be!  He's  all  right,  huh?  Sure  I'll 
fix  him  up.  Everybody  else  dead?  I  got  that 
guy  in  the  bunk  house — drilled  him  three  times." 

"Look  out  for  that  fellow  over  there.  Maybe 
I  brained  him,  but  I'm  not  sure." 

Knowlton  was  already  down  on  his  knees 
beside  Jose*,  working  fast  to  loop  a  tourniquet 
and  stop  the  flow  from  the  pierced  arm.  With  a 
handkerchief  and  his  pistol  barrel  he  shut  off 
the  pulsating  stream. 

"Yeah,  he's  done,"  judged  Tim,  rising  from 
the  man  whom  Knowlton  had  downed  at  last. 
"Skull's  caved  in.  What  'd  ye  paste  him  with?" 

"Gun.    Cursed  thing  stuck." 

"Uh-huh.  Them  automats  are  cranky.  Say, 
lookit  the  mess  Hozy  made  o'  that  guy  Hooley-o." 

Knowlton  glanced  at  Julio  and  whistled.  Josh's 
oft-repeated  threat  to  disembowel  a  refractory 
member  of  the  crew  had  at  last  been  literally 
fulfilled. 

But  the  lieutenant  had  seen  worse  sights  in 
the  shell-torn  trenches  of  France,  and  now  he 
kept  his  mind  on  his  work.  Wedging  the  gun 
to  hold  the  tourniquet  tight,  he  lifted  his  patient 
from  the  red-smeared  mud  and  bore  him  to  the 
nearest  hammock  in  the  crew  quarters.  Striding 
back,  he  found  Tim  alternately  bathing  McKay's 
head  and  giving  him  brandy.  In  a  moment  the 
captain's  eyes  opened. 

"Some  bean  ye  got,  Cap,"  congratulated  Tim, 
vastly  relieved  at  sight  of  McKay's  gray  stare. 


COLD  STEEL  83' 

"Bullet  bounced  right  off.  Here,  take  another 
swaller.  Attaboy!  Hey,  Looey,  we  better  pack 
this  crease  o'  Cap's,  huh?  She  keeps  leakin'." 

"Yep.  Dip  up  the  surgical  kit.  And  give 
Jose"  a  drink.  I'll  have  to  tie  his  artery,  too. 
How  do  you  feel,  old  chap?" 

"Dizzy,"  McKay  confessed.  "What's  hap 
pened?" 

"Lost  our  crew,"  was  the  laconic  answer. 
"All  gone  west  but  Jose*,  and  he's  bled  white. 
We'll  have  to  paddle  our  own  canoe  now." 

For  a  time  after  his  head  was  bandaged  McKay 
lay  quiet,  staring  out  at  the  tiny  battlefield  and 
atfhis  two  mates  working  silently  on  the  wounded 
arm  of  Jose*.  When  they  came  back  he  spoke 
one  word. 

"Schwandorf." 

"Yeah!  He's  the  nigger  in  the  woodpile,  I  bet 
my  shirt.  But  why?  What's  his  lay,  d'ye  s'pose?" 

"Perhaps  Jose*  knows,"  suggested  Knowlton. 
"But  he's  in  no  shape  to  talk  now.  Let's  see. 
Schwandorf  said  he  was  going  to  Iquitos?" 

"Yes,  but  that  doesn't  mean  anything." 

"Probably  not.  Well,  maybe  Jose"  can  ex 
plain." 

There  were  some  things,  however,  which  Jose" 
could  not  have  told  if  he  would,  for  he  himself 
did  not  know  them.  One  was  that  Schwandorf 
really  had  gone  to  Iquitos,  where  was  a  radio 
station.  Another  was  that  from  that  radio 
station  to  Puerto  Bermudez,  thence  over  the 


84  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

Andes  to  the  coast,  and  northward  to  a  New 
York  address  memorized  from  Knowlton's  note 
book,  already  had  gone  this  message: 

McKay  expedition  killed  by  Indians.  Rand  search  most 
dangerous,  but  if  empowered  I  attempt  locate  him  for  fifty 
thousand  gold  payable  on  safe  delivery  Rand  at  Manaos. 
Reply  soon  a^  possible. 

KARL  SCHWANDORF. 


CHAPTER  VIII.     THE  DOUBLE-CROSS 

NOON,  sweltering  hot.  A  blazing  sun  pour 
ing  vertical  rays  down  on  a  blinding  river. 
A  long  canoe  wearily  creeping  up  the  glar 
ing  waters,  minus  a  lookout,  heedless  of  the  ever- 
present  danger  of  sunken  tree  trunks;  propelled 
by  three  sun-blistered  white  men,  one  of  whom 
wore  a  bandage  around  his  head;  steered  per 
functorily  by  a  pallid  pirate  whose  left  arm 
hung  in  a  sling.  Atop  the  right  bank  an  un 
broken,  endless  tangle  of  jungle  growth.  Ahead, 
on  the  left  shore,  a  gap  gouged  out  of  the  forest 
and  a  number  of  boats  at  the  water's  edge. 

"Guess  that's  it,"  panted  Knowlton,  shielding 
his  eyes  and  squinting  at  the  clearing.  "One 
more  day's  journey,  the  Brazilian  chap  said. 
We've  been  two  and  a  half." 

"One  day's  journey  for  six  hardened  river- 
men,  senor,"  corrected  Jose".  "Not  for  three 
men  doing  six  men's  work  and  hampered  by  a 
cripple." 

"Aw,  ye're  no  crip,  Hozy,"  dissented  Tim. 
"Any  guy  that  can  steer  a  tub  like  this  here  one- 
handed  after  losin'  a  couple  gallons  o'  juice  is  in 
good  shape  yet,  I'll  say.  If  ye  had  both  legs 
shot  off  and  yer  arms  broke  and  yer  head  stove 
in,  now,  ye  might  call  yourself  sort  o*  helpless. 

Ease  her  over  to  the  left  a  li'P  more,  so's  we'll 
7 


86  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

hit  the  bank  right  at  the  corner  o;  that  gap. 
Me,  I  don't  want  to  take  one  stroke  more  'n 
I  have  to.  Every  muscle  in  me  is  so  sore  it 
squeaks." 

"Same  here,"  admitted  Knowlton.  "I'm  one 
solid  ache." 

Jose"  nodded.  The  clumsy  craft  veered  a  bit. 
The  three  put  a  little  more  punch  into  their 
lagging  strokes,  noting,  as  they  neared  the 
steep  bank,  that  a  couple  of  men  had  appeared  at 
its  top  and  were  staring  at  them.  Gradually 
the  long  dugout  worked  in  to  the  muddy  shore, 
where  the  paddlers  stabbed  their  blades  into  the 
clay  and  held  it  firm. 

"Ahoy,  up  there!    This  the  Nunes  seringal?" 

From  the  edge,  some  thirty  feet  above,  the 
taller  of  the  two  watchers  answered: 

"Si,  senhor.  The  headquarters  of  the  coronel. 
Do  you  come  to  visit  him?" 

"Right." 

"Then  permit  me  to  help  you.  The  path  is  a 
little  ahead.  Pull  up  and  tie  to  this  stake." 

The  tall  fellow  came  dropping  swiftly  downward. 
At  the  same  time  the  other  Brazilian  stepped  back 
and  was  gone. 

With  a  dexterous  twist  the  man  of  Nunes 
moored  the  boat  to  the  designated  stake.  Then 
he  reached  a  hand  toward  Tim  to  help  him  out. 

"I  ain't  no  old  woman,  feller,"  Tim  refused, 
and  hopped  aground  unassisted.  McKay  and 
Knowlton  followed.  But  Jose*,  after  moving 


THE  DOUBLE-CROSS  87 

languidly  forward  and  contemplating  the  sharp 
slope,  hesitated  and  then  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  am  tired,  senores,"  he  said.  "And  perhaps 
it  would  be  well  for  one  to  stay  here  and  watch," 

The  tall  Brazilian's  eyes  narrowed. 

"There  is  no  danger  of  loss,"  he  asserted,  with 
dignity.  "We  men  of  the  coronel  are  not 
thieves." 

The  slight  emphasis  of  his  last  sentence  might 
have  been  taken  as  an  intimation  that  some  one 
else  not  far  away  would  bear  watching.  Josh's 
mouth  tightened.  For  a  moment  Brazilian  and 
Peruvian  eyed  each  other  in  obvious  dislike. 
Then,  with  a  glance  at  his  crippled  arm,  Jose* 
shrugged  again. 

"Better  come  along,  Jose*,"  McKay  said. 
"Stuff's  safe  enough." 

"As  you  will,  Capitan." 

He  lounged  to  the  edge,  hesitated,  wavered 
slightly.  At  once  the  Brazilian  darted  out  a  hand 
and  gave  him  support.  And  while  the  four 
clambered  up  the  slope  he  retained  a  grip  on  the 
Peruvian's  arm,  aiding  him  to  the  top.  When 
they  emerged  on  the  level,  however,  he  dropped 
his  hand  immediately.  Jose"  gave  him  a  half- 
mocking  bow  of  thanks,  to  which  he  replied  with 
a  short  nod.  Then  he  stepped  back  and  let  the 
Peruvian  precede  him  toward  a  number  of  sub 
stantial  pole-supported  houses  a  hundred  yards 
away. 

"No  love  lost  between  them  two,"  thought 


88  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL  ^ 

Tim,  who  had  watched  it  all.  "Good  skate, 
though,  this  new  feller.  Ready  to  help  a  guy 
that  needs  it,  whether  he  likes  him  or  not;  ready 
to  knock  his  block  off,  too,  if  he  needs  that.  Bet 
he'd  be  a  hellion  in  a  scrap.  Dang  good-lookin' 
lad,  too." 

Wherewith  he  introduced  himself. 

"Don't  git  sore  because  I  growled  at  ye  down 
below,"  he  said,  with  a  friendly  grin.  "Sounded 
rough,  mebbe,  but  that's  my  style.  I'm  Tim 
Ryan,  from  the  States.  I  bark  more  'n  I  bite." 

The  overture  met  with  instant  response — a 
quick  smile  and  a  twinkle  in  the  warm  eyes. 

"It  is  not  words  that  give  offense,  senhor,  but 
the  way  they  are  spoken — and  the  man  who 
speaks  them.  One  man  may  growl,  but  you  like 
him.  Another  may  speak  smoothly,  but  you  itch 
to  strike  him.  Is  it  not  so?  I  am  Pedro  Andrada, 
a  seringwiro  who  should  be  tapping  trees  instead 
of  loafing  here.  But  my  partner  and  I  have  just 
come  in  from  a  long  trip  into  the  sertao — wilder 
ness — and  are  resting." 

"Yeah?    Was  that  yer  buddy  I  seen  with  ye? " 

"My — ah — buddee?  Partner?  Yes,  that  was 
he —  Lourengo  Moraes,  the  best  comrade  one 
ever  had.  He  has  gone  to  tell  the  coronel  of  your 
arrival.  Have  you  met  with  an  accident  down 
river?" 

He  moved  a  thumb  meaningly  toward  the  only 
remaining  member  of  the  crew. 

"Yeah,"  grimly.    "Bad  accident." 


THE  DOUBLE-CROSS  89 

Tim  tapped  his  pistol  significently,  raised  five 
fingers,  winked,  and  twitched  his  head  toward  the 
Peruvian.  Pedro  lifted  his  brows,  nodded  quick 
understanding,  pointed  to  the  bad  arm  of  Jose", 
and  made  motions  as  if  pulling  a  trigger.  Tim 
shook  his  head  and  enacted  the  pantomime  of 
drawing  and  throwing  a  knife.  Whereat  the 
Brazilian,  aware  that  Jose*  was  not  a  prisoner  and 
probably  knowing  that  North  Americans  were 
not  knife  throwers,  looked  much  puzzled.  But 
their  sign  manual  went  no  farther,  for  they  now 
approached  the  house  which  evidently  formed 
the  dwelling  and  office  of  Coronel  Nunes. 

At  the  foot  of  the  ladder  stood  a  broad- 
shouldered,  square- jawed,  thick-muscled,  deeply 
tanned  man,  who,  without  speaking,  pointed  a 
thumb  upward.  Above,  in  the  doorway,  waited 
an  elderly  Brazilian  of  medium  height  and  spare 
figure,  standing  with  soldierly  erectness  and 
garbed  in  white  duck  of  semimilitary  cut.  He 
beamed  down  at  McKay  and  Knowlton,  but  as 
his  black  eyes  encountered  those  of  Jose*  they 
seemed  suddenly  to  become  very  sharp.  Then 
his  gaze  rested  on  Tun's  broad  face  and  he 
smiled  again. 

"Enter,  gentlemen,"  he  invited.  "Esta  casa 
e  a  si/as  or  denes — this  house  is  at  your  disposal." 

McKay,  with  a  bow,  climbed  the  ladder,  fol 
lowed  by  Knowlton.  Jose",  with  a  swaggering 
stare  at  the  wide-shouldered  man,  who  stared 
straight  back  without  facial  change,  also  went  up. 


90  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

Tim  came  fourth  and  last,  for  Pedro  stopped 
beside  his  countryman,  who  evidently  was 
Lourengo. 

The  travelers  found  themselves  in  a  room 
which,  in  view  of  its  distance  from  civilization, 
seemed  palatial.  Its  floor  was  tight,  its  furniture 
modern,  its  walls  decorated  with  a  few  excellent 
pictures,  of  which  the  largest  was  a  superb  view 
of  the  rugged  harbor  of  Rio  de  Janeiro.  Com 
fortable  chairs  were  ranged  along  the  walls,  and 
the  middle  of  the  room  was  occupied  by  a  massive 
square-cornered  table  on  which  lay  a  jumble  of 
hand-written  business  papers,  a  number  of  books, 
a  high-grade  violin  and  bow.  Beyond  the  table 
stood  a  swivel  chair,  evidently  the  usual  seat  of 
the  coronel.  Table  and  chair  were  so  arranged 
that  the  master  of  this  house  sat  always  with  his 
back  to  a  wall  and  his  face  toward  the  door. 
And  on  a  couple  of  hooks  on  that  wall,  ready  for 
instant  service,  hung  a  high-power  rifle. 

On  their  way  up  the  river  the  Americans  had 
passed,  at  long  intervals,  a  few  small  rubber 
estates,  whose  headquarters  consisted  mainly  of  a 
crude  shack  or  two,  hardly  better  than  the  dingy 
houses  of  Remate  de  Males.  This  place  was  more 
imposing.  They  had  observed,  while  crossing 
the  cleared  space,  that  it  was  at  least  half  a  mile 
square;  that  its  warehouse  for  supplies  was  big 
and  solid;  that  a  goodly  number  of  barracaos,  or 
rubber  workers'  huts,  surrounded  the  house  of 
the  master  at  a  respectful  distance;  and  that  the 


THE  DOUBLE-CROSS  91 

owner's  home  was  no  one-room  cabin,  but  big 
enough  to  contain  six  or  eight  rooms.  This  well- 
appointed  reception  room  and  the  formal  yet 
sincere  courtesy  of  its  owner  showed  that  Coronel 
Nunes  was  no  mere  native  of  the  frontier.  Later 
they  were  to  learn  that  he  was  a  gentleman  of 
Rio  who,  exiling  himself  from  the  capital  after  the 
death  of  his  wife,  had  carved  from  this  forbidding 
jungle  a  fortune  in  the  rubber  trade. 

With  the  correct  touch  of  Latin  punctilio 
McKay  spoke  the  introductions  and  stated  that 
they  were  on  their  way  upriver  to  explore  the 
hinterland.  With  equal  politeness  the  coronel 
bowed  and  begged  his  illustrious  guests  to  be 
seated.  Then  he  touched  a  small  bell.  A  door 
at  one  side  opened  and  a  white-suited  negro 
appeared. 

"Cafe","  the  coronel  ordered.  As  speedily  as 
if  these  visitors  had  been  long  expected,  the  serv 
ant  brought  in  a  tray  bearing  cups  of  syrupy 
coffee.  Each  of  the  guests  accepted  one.  Where 
after  the  decorum  of  the  occasion  was  shattered 
by  Tim,  who,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  scalding 
himself,  gulped  his  refreshment  and  vociferated 
his  satisfaction. 

"0-o-oh  boy!  That  hits  right  where  I  live! 
Gimme  another  one,  feller,  and  make  it  man's 
size!" 

The  black  fellow  struggled  with  his  quick 
mirth  and  then  laughed  outright — the  throaty, 
infectious  laugh  of  his  race.  The  coronel's  eyes 


92  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

twinkled.  And  when  Tim  fished  a  damp  cigarette 
from  his  shirt,  nonchalantly  scraped  a  match  on 
his  host's  table,  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and 
sprawled  back  with  one  leg  dangling  over  a  chair 
arm,  formality  went  a-glimmering. 

11 A  quern  madruga  Deus  ajuda"  laughed  the 
coronel.  "Or,  as  you  North  Americans  put  it, 
'God  helps  those  who  help  themselves.'  Let  us 
not  be  ceremonious,  gentlemen.  'Tonio,  bring 
more  coffee.  And  cigars.  And — " 

Down  behind  his  table,  where  only  the  servant 
saw  the  motion,  he  twitched  a  finger  as  if  pulling 
a  cork.  'Tonio,  his  ebony  countenance  split  by 
a  grin,  ducked  his  head  and  vanished  into  the 
other  room. 

"How  is  the  rubber  market,  sir?"  asked 
Knowlton,  seeking  to  divert  attention  from  Tim. 

"Not  so  good,"  the  old  gentleman  replied, 
with  a  deprecatory  gesture.  "In  truth,  it  is  very 
poor  since  the  war — so  poor  that  soon  I  shall 
abandon  this  seringal  and  go  out  to  spend  the 
rest  of  my  life  on  the  coast.  With  rubber  selling 
at  a  mere  five  hundred  dollars  a  ton  in  New 
York  and  the  artificial  plantations  of  the  Far 
East  growing  greater  yearly,  there  is  no  longer 
much  profit  in  bleeding  the  wild  trees  of  our 
jungle.  I  really  do  not  know  why  I  stay  here 
now,  unless  it  is  because  I  have  become  so  much 
accustomed  to  this  life." 

"Why,  I  understood  that  there  was  much 
money  in  rubber!" 


THE  DOUBLE-CROSS  93 

"You  speak  truth — there  was.  Now  there  is 
not.  The  world  moves  and  times  change.  Years 
ago  foreigners  came  into  Brazil,  helped  them 
selves  to  the  seed  of  our  wild  trees,  and  planted 
it  in  Ceylon  and  the  Malay  region.  That  seed 
now  bears  such  fruit  that  the  world  is  flooded 
with  rubber.  Ten  years  ago,  senhores,  a  ton 
sold  for  six  thousand  five  hundred  dollars.  Now, 
in  this  year  nineteen-twenty,  the  price  is  only 
one-thirteenth  of  what  it  was  in  those  days.  It 
scarcely  pays  for  the  gathering.  I  hope  you  have 
not  come  expecting  to  make  fortunes  in  rubber." 

"No.  We  are  here  to  find  a  race  of  men  known 
as  Red  Bones." 

The  coroners  brows  lifted.  They  kept  on 
lifting,  and  he  opened  his  lips  twice  without 
speaking.  After  a  long  stare  at  Knowlton  he 
looked  at  McKay,  at  Tim,  and  finally  at  Jose". 
A  frown  grew  on  his  face.  And  the  Americans, 
following  his  look  at  the  Peruvian,  were  surprised 
to  see  that  Jose"  himself  was  staring  blankly 
at  the  speaker. 

"  Jose"  Martinez!"  snapped  the  coronel,  leveling 
a  finger  pistollike  at  the  punter o.  "What  devil's 
game  are  you  working  now?" 

Jose"  recovered  himself  and  lifted  his  coffee  cup. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  Nunes,"  he  replied, 
languidly.  "I  am  but  the  humble  puntero  of 
the  crew  engaged  by  these  senores.  My  only 
work  has  been  to  earn  my  pay.  And  you  may 
ask  el  capitan  whether  I  have  earned  it." 


94  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"Ay,  he  has,"  corroborated  McKay.  "Killed 
two  of  his  own  crew  in  our  defense." 

The  coronel's  jaw  dropped.  He  blinked  as  if 
disbelieving  his  ears. 

"He — Jose"?  Not  possible!"  he  stuttered. 
"Jose* — this  man — defended  you  against  his 
companions?" 

"Exactly." 

The  Brazilian  slowly  shook  his  head.  Then 
suddenly  he  nodded  as  if  an  illuminating  thought 
had  crossed  his  mind. 

"I  see.    Jose  is  very  well  paid." 

"One  dollar  a  day,"  was  McKay's  dry  retort. 

At  that  moment  'Tonio  re-entered  with  a 
larger  tray  than  before,  bearing  more  coffee, 
long  cigars,  and  squat  glasses  in  which  glowed  a 
golden  liquid.  Tun  sat  up  with  a  grunt  and 
helped  himself  with  both  hands.  When  the 
coronel's  turn  came  he  disregarded  the  drinks, 
but  lit  the  cigar  as  if  he  needed  it. 

"De  noite  todos  os  gatos  sao  pardos,"  he  said. 
"At  night  all  cats  are  gray.  I  am  much  in  the 
dark,  gentlemen.  If  you  would  be  so  good  as 
to  enlighten  me — " 

He  paused,  looking  sidewise  again  at  Jose*  as 
if  the  puntero  had  suddenly  grown  wings  or 
horns. 

"All  right,"  nodded  Knowlton,  biting  and 
lighting  his  cigar.  "We  are  somewhat  in  the 
dark  ourselves  as  to  why  Jos6  has  been  so 
zealous,  for  he  has  been  very  taciturn  since  the 


THE  DOUBLE-CROSS  95 

recent  fight  at  our  camp.  Perhaps  Jose"  also  is 
a  bit  hazy  about  our  expedition — he  looked 
rather  surprised  just  now.  So  here  is  the 
situation." 

Briefly  then  he  outlined  the  object  of  the 
search,  stating  that  the  identity  of  the  mysterious 
Raposa  was  a  matter  of  some  concern  to  cer 
tain  persons  in  the  United  States  and  that  the 
expedition  had  been  formed  with  the  view  of 
settling  the  question.  From  the  time  of  the 
landing  at  Remate  de  Males,  however,  he  nar 
rated  events  more  fully,  giving  complete  details 
of  Schwandorf s  activities,  Francisco's  offense, 
and  the  final  attack  by  the  crew.  While  he 
talked  the  coronel's  frown  deepened.  Also,  Jose" 
gradually  assumed  the  expression  of  a  thunder 
cloud.  And  when  the  tale  was  done  the  puntero 
exploded. 

"Sangre  de  Cristo!"  he  yelled.  "El  Aleman — 
the  German — he  told  you  we  would  go  among 
the  cannibals?  We?  Peruvians?  Madre  de 
Dios!  If  ever  I  get  within  knife  length  of  him! 
Nunes,  you  see,  do  you  not?" 

The  coronel  nodded  grimly. 

"I  see  that  he  planned  to  have  all  of  you 
destroyed.  Senhor  Knowlton,  that  black-bearded 
and  black-hearted  man  suggested  that  you  take 
Mayoruna  women?  He  told  you  they  were 
shapely  of  body  and  tried  to  put  into  your  minds 
the  thought  of  making  them  your  paramours? 
The  snake! 


96  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"He  did  not  tell  you,  then,  that  the  Mayonma 
men  allow  no  trifling  with  their  women;  that 
any  alien  man  attempting  to  embrace  one  of 
them  would  be  killed.  But  it  is  true.  If  you 
should  succeed  in  establishing  friendly  relations 
with  the  men — which  is  not  at  all  likely — you 
would  forfeit  all  friendship,  and  your  lives  as 
well,  by  the  slightest  dalliance  with  any  of  the 
women. 

"He  told  you  that  more  than  one  man  has 
risked  his  life  to  win  a  Mayoruna  woman?  That 
is  true.  But  he  gave  you  a  false  impression  as 
to  the  way  in  which  the  risk  was  incurred.  He 
did  not  tell  you  that  Peruvian  caucheros  have 
sometimes  raided  small  isolated  melocas  of  the 
Mayorunas,  shooting  down  the  men  and  carrying 
off  the  girls  to  be  victims  of  their  bestial  lust. 
He  did  not  tell  you  that  for  this  reason  any 
Peruvian  is  considered  their  enemy  and  is  killed 
without  mercy  wherever  found.  Yet  he  tried 
to  send  you  with  Peruvian  guides  into  their 
country.  He  knew  the  Peruvians  would  be 
killed  on  sight — and  you  with  them." 


CHAPTER  IX.     FIDDLERS  THREE 

BLACK  looks  passed  among  the  men  as  the 
duplicity  of  Schwandorf  lay  plain  before 
their  eyes.  Tim  growled.  Jose"  hissed 
curses.  The  coronel  whirled  to  him. 

"Jose"!  What  was  his  object  in  trying  to 
destroy  you  and  your  crew?  You  have  been 
his  man.  You  know  much  about  him.  He 
wanted  to  stop  your  mouth,  yes?  Dead  men 
tell  no  tales." 

The  puntero's  eyes  glittered.  For  a  moment 
the  others  thought  he  was  about  to  reveal  im 
portant  secrets.  Then  his  face  changed. 

"I  know  no  reason  why  we  should  be  killed," 
he  declared. 

"I  do  not  believe  you,"  the  coronel  declared, 
bluntly. 

Jose"  shrugged,  calmly  drank  the  coronel's 
wine,  lighted  the  coronel's  cigar,  leaned  back 
in  the  coronel's  chair,  and  eyed  the  coronel  with 
imperturbable  insolence. 

"See  here,  Jose","  demanded  McKay,  "you've 
had  something  up  your  sleeve  all  along.  Now 
come  clean!  What  is  it?" 

Jose"  puffed  airily  at  the  cigar,  saying  nothing. 

"What  orders  did  Schwandorf  give  you?" 

This  time  the  reply  came  readily  enough. 

"To  take  you  twenty-four  days  up  the  river 


98  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

and  put  you  ashore.  To  prevent  any  trouble 
before  that  time." 

"Ah!    And  after  that?" 

"Nothing.  At  least,  nothing  to  me.  What 
may  have  been  said  to  the  other  men  I  do  not 
know.  Schwandorf  came  to  me  last,  after  he 
had  picked  all  the  others." 

"And  what  do  you  know  about  Schwandorf?" 

"What  is  between  me  and  Schwandorf  will  be 
settled  between  me  and  Schwandorf.  My  duty 
to  you  senores  lies  only  in  handling  the  crew. 
Now  that  there  is  no  crew  my  duty  ends.  Also, 
Capitan,  I  would  like  my  pay  now." 

"You  quit?" 

"Why  not?  I  have  done  my  best.  I  can  do 
no  more.  I  am  crippled.  I  am  of  no  further 
use  to  you.  Give  me  my  pay,  a  little  food,  a 
small  canoe,  and  I  go." 

"It  is  possible,  Senhor  Jose*,"  spoke  the  coronel, 
with  ironic  politeness,  "that  you  may  not  go 
so  soon.  You  have  killed  two  men  recently. 
You  refuse  to  reveal  some  things  which  should 
be  known  about  the  German.  Perhaps  the 
law—" 

Jos6  burst  into  a  jeering  laugh. 

"Law?  You  speak  of  law?  There  is  no  law 
up  the  river  but  the  law  of  the  gun  and  the  knife. 
And  if  there  were,  senor,  what  then?  I  killed 
hi  a  fair  fight.  I  killed  men  who  would  do 
murder.  I  killed  on  the  west  bank  of  the  river 
— Peru.  Neither  you  nor  any  other  Brazilian 


FIDDLERS  THREE  99 

can  lay  hand  on  me.  And  though  I  now  have 
only  one  good  arm,  it  will  not  be  well  for  anyone 
to  try  to  hold  me.  My  knife  and  my  right  hand 
still  are  ready." 

"By  cripes!  the  lad's  right!"  Tim  blurted, 
impulsively.  "  And  I'll  tell  the  world  I'm  for  him. 
He's  got  a  right  to  keep  his  mouth  shut  if  he 
wants  to.  He  don't  owe  us  nothin'.  Mebbe 
he's  got  somethin'  up  his  sleeve,  at  that;  but  he 
stuck  with  us  in  the  pinch,  and — •" 

"And  we'll  give  him  a  square  deal,  of  course," 
Knowlton  cut  in.  "Jose",  your  own  wages  to 
this  point,  at  a  dollar  a  day,  are  eighteen  dollars. 
The  wages  of  the  five  other  men  to  the  place 
where  they — quit — would  aggregate  seventy-five 
dollars.  Grand  total,  ninety-three.  The  others 
chose  to  take  their  pay  in  lead  instead  of  gold, 
so  their  account  is  closed.  Therefore  I  suggest 
that  their  pay  go  to  you  as  puntero,  popero, 
and  good  sport.  What  say,  Rod?" 

"Make  it  a  hundred  flat,"  McKay  agreed. 

"Right.  A  hundred  in  gold.  Satisfy  you, 
Jose-?" 

"Indeed  yes,  senor.  I  did  not  expect  such 
generosity." 

"  That's  all  right,  then.  We'll  fix  you  up  before 
we  move  on,  and —  Say!  Are  you  in  Schwan- 
dorf's  pay,  too?" 

Jos6  hesitated.    Then  he  replied: 

"Since  you  mention  it,  I  will  admit  that  el 
Akman  offered  me  certain  inducements  to  make 


100  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

this  journey.  I  now  see  that  he  had  no  intention 
of  meeting  his  promises.  But  you  can  leave  it 
to  me  to  collect  from  him  whatever  may  be 
due." 

Even  the  coronel  nodded  at  this.  The  gleam 
in  the  Peruvian's  eyes  presaged  unpleasantness 
for  Schwandorf. 

"You  gentlemen,  of  course,  will  not  attempt 
to  continue  your  journey  for  the  present,"  the 
coronel  suggested.  "You  are  fatigued  and  I  shall 
greatly  appreciate  the  pleasure  of  your  com 
panionship.  New  arrangements  also  will  be  nec 
essary  in  the  matter  of  a  boat  and  men." 

"We've  been  wondering  about  getting  another 
boat  and  a  new  crew,"  Knowlton  said,  frankly. 
"The  canoe  we  have  is  too  big  for  three  men  to 
handle,  and  I'll  admit  we're  tired.  Jose,  too, 
is  in  no  shape  to  travel  yet — " 

"Jose",  of  course,  is  my  guest  also,"  the  old 
gentleman  interrupted.  "The  question  of  new 
men  can  be  solved.  But  there  is  time  for  every 
thing,  and  now  is  the  time  for  all  of  you  to  rest. 
As  our  proverb  has  it,  lDevagar  se  vae  ao  longe' 
— he  goes  far  who  goes  slowly." 

McKay  arose,  glass  in  hand. 

"To  our  host,"  he  bowed.  The  toast  was 
drunk  standing.  Whereafter  the  host  tapped 
the  bell  twice  and  'Tonio  reappeared  with  a  tray 
of  fresh  glasses.  A  toast  to  the  United  States  by 
the  coronel  followed,  and  as  soon  as  the  black 
man  arrived  with  a  third  round  the  Republic  of 


FIDDLERS  THREE  101 

Brazil  was  pledged.  Then  the  coronel  directed 
the  servant: 

"'Tonio,  if  Pedro  and  Lourengo  are  outside, 
ask  them  to  move  the  belongings  of  the  gentle 
men  from  the  canoe.  And  make  ready  rooms 
for  the  guests." 

'Tonio  disappeared  down  the  ladder.  The 
coronel  raised  the  violin,  tendered  it  to  the 
others,  accepted  their  pleas  to  play  it  himself, 
and  for  the  next  half  hour  acquitted  himself  with 
no  mean  ability.  Snatches  of  long-forgotten 
operas  and  improvisations  of  his  own  flowed  from 
the  strings  in  smooth  harmony,  hinting  at  by 
gone  years  amid  far  different  surroundings  for 
which  his  soul  now  hungered  and  to  which  he 
would  return.  Pedro  and  Lourengo,  transporting 
the  equipment,  passed  in  and  out  soft-footed  and 
almost  unnoticed.  At  length  the  player,  with  a 
deprecatory  smile  and  a  half  apology  for  "  boring 
his  guests,"  extended  the  instrument  again  to 
ward  the  visitors.  And  McKay,  silent  McKay, 
took  it. 

Sweet  and  low,  out  welled  the  haunting  melody 
of  "Annie  Laurie."  Tun,  who  had  listened  with 
casual  interest  to  the  coronel' s  music,  now  grinned 
happily.  And  when  the  plaintive  Scotch  song 
became  "Kathleen  Mavourneen"  he  closed  his 
eyes  and  lay  back  in  pure  enjoyment.  "The 
River  Shannon"  flowed  into  "The  Suwanee 
River,"  and  this  in  turn  blended  into  other  heart- 
tugging  airs  of  Dixieland.  When  the  last  strain 


102  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

died  and  the  captain  reached  for  his  half-smoked 
cigar  the  room  was  silent  for  minutes. 

Then,  to  the  astonishment  of  all,  Jose*  spoke : 

"Senores,  there  was  a  time  when  I,  too,  could 
draw  music  from  the  violin.  If  I  may — "  His 
eyes  rested  longingly  on  the  instrument. 

"Certamente,  if  you  can  use  the  arm,"  the  coro- 
nel  acquiesced.  With  a  little  difficulty  Jose" 
drew  his  arm  from  the  sling,  balanced  his  left 
elbow  on  the  chair  arm,  and  poised  the  violin. 
A  half  smile  showed  in  the  eyes  of  the  coronel  as 
he  glanced  at  his  guests.  He,  and  they  as  well, 
expected  a  discordant,  uncouth  attempt  to  scrape 
out  some  obscene  ditty  of  the  frontier. 

But  as  Jose*,  after  jockeying  a  bit,  began  drift 
ing  the  bow  across  the  strings,  the  suppressed 
smiles  faded  and  eyes  opened.  Here  was  a  man 
who,  as  he  said,  once  could  play.  And  he  wasted 
no  time  on  airs  composed  by  others  and  known 
to  half  the  world.  Under  his  touch  the  mellow 
wood  began  to  talk,  and  hi  the  minds  of  the 
listeners  grew  pictures. 

City  streets,  blank-walled  houses,  patios,  the 
rattle  of  the  hoofs  of  burros  over  cobbles,  the 
shuffle  of  human  feet,  the  toll  of  bells  from  a  con 
vent  tower.  Gay  little  bits  of  music,  laughter, 
flashing  eyes,  a  voluptuous  love  song  repeated 
over  and  over.  A  sudden  wild  outbreak,  fighting 
men,  shots,  the  clash  of  steel — again  a  tolling  bell 
and  a  requiem  for  the  dead.  A  horse  galloping  hi 
the  night.  Mountain  winds  crooning  mournfully, 


FIDDLEB.S  THREE  103 

rising  to  the  scream  of  tempest  and  the  crash  of 
thunder.  Dreary  uplands,  the  hiss  of  rain,  the 
sough  of  drifting  snow,  the  patient  plod  of  a  mule 
along  a  perilous  trail.  And  then  the  jungle:  its 
discordant  uproar,  its  hammering  of  frogs,  its 
hoots  and  howls,  the  dismal  swash  of  flood  waters. 
A  monotonous  ebb  and  flow  of  life,  punctuated  by 
sudden  flares  of  fight.  Then  a  long,  mournful 
wail — and  silence. 

His  bow  still  on  the  strings,  Jose*  sat  for  a 
minute  like  a  stone  image,  his  eyes  straight 
ahead,  his  pale  face  drawn,  his  red  kerchief 
glowing  dully  in  the  semishadow  like  a  cap  of 
blood.  For  once  his  face  was  empty  of  all  in 
solence,  changed  by  a  pathetic  wistfulness  that 
made  it  tragic.  Then,  wordless,  he  lowered  the 
violin,  held  it  out  to  the  coronel,  fumbled  absent 
ly  at  his  sling,  and  slowly  incased  his  wounded 
arm.  When  he  looked  up  his  old  mocking  ex 
pression  had  come  back  and  he  once  more  looked 
the  reckless  buccaneer. 

For  a  time  no  one  spoke.  Each  felt  that  he  had 
glimpsed  something  of  this  man's  past;  felt,  too, 
that  he  who  now  was  a  bloody-handed  borderer 
had  once  been  a  cabaliero,  moving  in  a  much 
higher  circle.  Certainly  he  could  not  play  like 
this  unless  he  had  been  of  the  upper  class  in  his 
youth.  The  coroneFs  face  was  thoughtful  as  he 
took  back  the  violin.  When  at  length  he  began 
to  talk,  however,  it  was  on  a  topic  as  remote  as 
possible  from  music  and  present  personalities — 


104  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

the  reconstruction  of  Europe  as  the  result  of  the 
World  War. 

With  this  and  kindred  subjects,  aided  by  the 
attentive  ministrations  of  'Tonio,  the  afternoon 
passed  swiftly.  Dinner  proved  a  feast,  the  piece 
de  resistance  being  tender,  well-cooked  meat 
which  the  Americans  took  for  roast  beef,  but 
which  really  was  roast  tapir.  More  cigars, 
coupled  with  the  fatigue  of  the  past  two  days  of 
paddling,  eventually  caused  the  visitors  to  seek 
their  rooms,  where  McKay  and  Knowlton  paired 
off  and  Tim  took  Jos6  as  his  "bunkie." 

When  Tim  awoke  the  next  morning  he  found 
himself  deserted. 

To  Knowlton,  who  drew  from  the  small  gold- 
chest  the  hundred  dollars  allotted  to  Jose  and 
handed  it  to  him  before  redressing  his  wound, 
the  puntero  quietly  revealed  his  intention  to  go 
before  sunrise. 

"Say  nothing,  senor,"  he  requested.  "You 
need  know  nothing  of  it,  if  you  like.  I  am  here 
to-night — I  am  gone  to-morrow — that  is  all.  I 
am  of  no  further  use  to  you,  I  am  unwelcome  in 
this  house  of  Nunes,  and  I  go.  Oh,  have  no 
fear  for  me!  I  have  my  gun,  my  knife,  and  my 
good  right  arm,  and  I  can  take  care  of  myself 
very  well.  No  doubt  the  coronel  will  be  aston 
ished  to  find  that  on  leaving  to-night  I  have 
neither  cut  anyone's  throat  nor  stolen  anything 
— ha!  I  have  a  black  name  on  this  river,  and  it 
is  well  earned,  perhaps.  Yet  few  men  are  as 


FIDDLERS  THREE  105 

bad  as  those  who  dislike  them  think  they  are. 
I  may  borrow  a  small  canoe,  but  any  Indian 
would  do  the  same.  An  unoccupied  canoe  is 
any  man's  property. 

"Before  our  ways  part,  senor,  let  me  say  that 
as  Jos6  Martinez  never  forgets  his  enemies,  so 
he  never  forgets  friends.  Where  some  men 
would  have  turned  me  loose  like  a  sick  dog  with 
my  eighteen  dollars,  you  and  Senor  McKay  give 
me  a  hundred.  And  far  more  than  that,  you 
saved  my  life  at  a  time  when  many  men  would 
have  said,  'Bah!  let  the  bloody  one  die!  He  is 
nothing  but  scum  of  the  border  and  leader 
of  that  murdering  crew.'  You  had  only  to  let 
me  lie  a  few  minutes  longer  and  you  would  be 
rid  of  me.  No,  Jos6  does  not  forget. 

"That  is  all,  except — if  you  will,  in  parting, 
take  the  hand  of  a  man  known  as  a  killer  and 
other  things — " 

Knowlton  gripped  that  hand  with  swift  hearti 
ness.  He  would  have  protested  against  such  a 
departure,  but  the  other's  steady  gaze  betokened 
inflexible  purpose.  So  he  merely  said: 

"Then  good  luck,  old  chap!  And  if  you  meet 
Schwandorf  give  him  our  affectionate  regards." 

"Si,  senor,"  was  the  sardonic  answer.  "I 
will  do  that  thing.  And  here  is  something  that 
may  be  of  interest  to  you.  I  happen  to  know 
that  before  we  left  Remate  de  Males  a  swift 
one-man  canoe  left  Nazareth,  and  that  the  man 
in  it  was  an  Indian  who  is  in  the  German's  con- 


106  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

trol.  It  went  upstream  while  we  were  loading 
your  supplies,  and  it  has  not  returned.  By  this 
time  it  must  be  many  hours  above  this  place. 
I  do  not  know  what  message  that  Indian  carries, 
nor  where  he  goes.  But  he  is  a  short  man,  and 
his  left  leg  is  crooked.  If  you  meet  such  a  one 
make  him  talk.  Good-by,  senor." 

Just  how  and  when  the  puntero  catfooted  his 
way  out  that  night  none  ever  knew  but  himself. 
But  before  the  next  dawn  he  had  vanished  from 
the  Brazilian  shore. 


CHAPTER  X.     BY   THE   LIGHT   OF 
STORM 

"  /^\  NE  thing  I  can't  understand,"  Knowlton 

If  said,  toying  with  his  coffee  cup  the  next 
morning,  "is  why  Schwandorf  should 
double-cross  us.  We  never  did  anything  to  him. 
Another  thing  I  don't  quite  get  is  how  he  expected 
to  have  the  Peruvians  wiped  out  when  he  knew 
blamed  well  they  were  aware  of  the  enmity  of 
the  cannibals.  They'd  hardly  be  likely  to  go 
into  the  bush  with  us  under  those  circumstances." 

"My  guess  is  this,"  McKay  replied.  "He  set 
a  trap.  He  is  on  a  friendly  footing  with  some  of 
the  savages  above  here,  no  doubt.  He  dispatched 
that  Indian  messenger  to  stir  them  up  with  some 
false  tale  and  bring  them  to  some  place  where 
they'd  be  pretty  sure  to  get  us.  He  pruned  the 
crew  to  jump  us  at  the  same  place,  perhaps. 
Then  the  crew  would  kill  us  or  we'd  kill  them,  and 
whichever  side  won  would  be  smeared  by  the 
Indians.  Sort  of  a  trap  within  a  trap.  Why  he 
did  it  doesn't  matter  much.  He  double-crossed 
us,  he  double-crossed  the  crew,  he  double-crossed 
Jose".  First  thing  he  knows  he'll  find  he's  double- 
crossed  himself." 

"Yeah,"  Tim  grunted.  "He  better  beat  it 
before  we  git  back!" 

"He  wanted  no  killing  before  we  reached  the 


108  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

cannibal  country,"  McKay  went  on,  "because 
then  it  would  all  be  blamed  on  the  savages  and 
he  could  show  clean  hands.  Francisco's  venge- 
fulness  tipped  over  his  cart." 

"Still,  he  might  have  known  we'd  stop  here  for 
a  call  on  the  coronel,  and  that  there  was  a  big 
chance  for  us  to  be  warned  here  about  the  feud 
between  Mayorunas  and  Peruvians." 

"That  probably  was  provided  for.  Crew 
doubtless  had  orders  to  prevent  any  such  visit, 
by  lying  to  us  or  in  other  ways.  We  probably 
would  have  gone  surging  past  here  at  top 
speed." 

"Wai,  it  don't  git  us  nothin'  to  talk  about 
things  that  'ain't  happened,"  interposed  the 
practical  Tim.  "Question  is,  where  do  we  go 
from  here?  And  how?" 

All  eyes  went  to  the  coronel,  who  sat  lan 
guidly  smoking  his  morning  cigar. 

"Coronel,  we  are  in  your  hands,"  McKay  said, 
bluntly.  "Your  men,  I  presume,  are  all  out  at 
work  hi  various  parts  of  the  bush.  We  want  a 
crew  and,  if  possible,  guides.  Can  you  help  us?  " 

The  coronel  flicked  off  an  ash  and  spoke  slowly: 

"I  have  two  men,  senhores,  who  have  no  peers 
as  bushmen.  They  are  the  two  whom  you  saw 
yesterday.  Frankly,  they  are  most  valuable  to 
me,  and  I  hesitate  about  sending  them  on  so  dan 
gerous  a  mission  as  yours.  Yet  they  might  suc 
ceed  where  most  men  would  fail,  for  they  have 
repeatedly  gone  into  the  bush  on  risky  journeys 


BY  THE  LIGHT  OF  STORM          109 

and  returned  unharmed.  Their  adventures 
would  fill  books. 

"The  older  of  these  two,  Lourengo  Moraes, 
has  been  more  than  once  among  the  cannibals  of 
this  region,  and  so  he  knows  something  of  them. 
Naturally  he  did  not  live  long  among  them;  he 
left  them  as  soon  as  he  could.  But  he  has  the 
faculty  of  extricating  himself  from  hopeless 
positions — or  perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  say 
that  his  cool  head  and  good  fortune  together  have 
preserved  him  thus  far.  '  Tanta  vez  vae  o  cantaro 
afonte  ate  que  urn  dia  lafica' — the  pitcher  may  go 
often  to  the  spring,  but  some  day  it  remains 
there. 

"Pedro  Andrada,  the  younger,  is  not  so  steady 
and  cool-headed  as  Lourengo.  Yet  he  is  a  most 
capable  man,  and  the  two  together — they  are 
always  together — make  a  very  efficient  team." 

"I  bet  they  do,"  Tim  concurred,  heartily.  "I 
like  that  Pedro  lad  fine." 

"So  do  I,"  the  coronel  smiled.  "Now,  gentle 
men,  I  will  not  order  these  men  to  go  with  you. 
If  they  go  it  must  be  of  then*  own  choice.  They 
have  only  recently  returned  from  a  hazardous 
mission  and  they  are  entitled  to  rest.  Yet  I  have 
little  doubt  that  they  will  jump  at  the  chance  to 
risk  their  lives  in  a  new  venture.  If  they  choose 
to  go,  I  suggest  that  you  place  yourselves  entirely 
in  their  hands  and  give  them  free  rein.  You 
would  look  far  for  better  men." 

"And  we're  lucky  to  get  them,"  Knowlton  ac- 


110  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

quiesced.  "To  them  and  to  you  we  shall  be 
greatly  indebted." 

"Not  to  me,  senhor,"  the  coronel  demurred. 
"I  do  nothing  but  bring  you  men  together. 
Theirs  is  the  risk.  'Tonio!  Find  Pedro  and 
Lourengo.  Shall  we  go  into  the  office,  gentle 
men?" 

Chairs  scraped  back  and  an  exodus  from  the 
dining  room  ensued.  Outside,  the  lusty  voice  of 
the  negro  bawled.  Soon  he  was  back,  and  at  his 
heels  strode  the  lithe  Pedro  and  the  quiet  Lou 
rengo.  They  ran  their  eyes  over  the  group,  then 
stood  looking  inquiringly  at  then-  employer. 

"Be  seated,  men.  Roll  cigarettes  if  you  like," 
said  the  coronel.  Coolly  they  did  both.  Pedro, 
catching  Tim's  friendly  grin,  flashed  a  quick 
smile  in  return.  Lourengo,  unsmiling,  looked 
squarely  into  each  man's  face  in  turn  and  seemed 
satisfied  with  what  he  saw.  Both  then  glanced 
around  as  if  missing  some  one. 

"Your  friend  Jose  has  left  us,"  the  coronel 
informed  them,  dryly,  interpreting  the  look. 
"He  disappeared  in  the  night." 

"Ah!  That  is  why  one  of  our  canoes  is  gone," 
said  Pedro.  "We  are  ready  to  start." 

"You  mistake,"  the  old  gentleman  laughed. 
"We  do  not  want  him  back.  Nothing  else  is 
missing." 

Whereat  Pedro  looked  slightly  surprised. 
Lourengo's  lips  curved  in  a  fault  grin.  Neither 
made  any  further  comment. 


BY  THE  LIGHT  OF  STORM          111 

The  coronel  plunged  at  once  into  the  business 

for  which  they  had  been  summoned.    Succinctly 

he  stated  the  purpose  of  the  North  Americans 

in  coming  here,  pointed  out  their  need  of  guides — • 

*•  and  stopped   there.     He  said  nothing  of   the 

'  dangers  ahead,  mentioned  no  reward,  did  not 

even  ask  the  men  whether  they  would  go.     He 

merely  lit  a  fresh  cigar  and  leaned  back  hi  his 

chair. 

A  silence  followed.  Again  Lourenco  looked 
searchingly  into  the  face  of  each  American. 
Pedro  contemplated  the  opposite  wall,  taking 
occasional  puffs  from  his  cigarette.  At  length 
Knowlton  suggested,  tentatively: 

"We  will  pay  well—" 

Both  the  bushmen  frowned.  The  coronel 
spoke  in  a  tone  of  mild  reproof: 

"Senhor,  it  is  not  a  matter  of  pay.  These  men 
can  make  plenty  of  money  as  seringueiros. " 

"Pardon,"  said  Knowlton,  and  thereafter  held 
his  tongue. 

Deliberately  Lourengo  finished  his  smoke, 
pinched  the  coal  between  a  hard  thumb  and  fore 
finger,  and  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"May  I  ask,  senhor,  if  you  are  the  com 
mander?"  His  gaze  rested  on  McKay. 

"I  am." 

"And  do  I  understand  that  we  shall  at  all 
times  be  subject  to  your  orders?" 

"  In  case  any  orders  are  necessary — yes.  But  I 
assume  that  you  will  not  need  commands." 


112  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

A  quiet  smile  showed  in  the  bushman's  eyes. 
He  glanced  at  Pedro.  The  latter  met  the  look 
from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  without  wink,  nod,  or 
other  sign.  But  when  Lourengo  turned  again 
to  McKay  he  spoke  as  if  all  were  arranged. 

"When  do  we  start,  Capitao?" 

Tun  slapped  his  leg  and  cackled. 

"By  cripes!  there  ain't  no  lost  motion  with 
these  guys.  Hey,  Cap?" 

McKay  smiled  approvingly. 

"We  shall  get  on  together,"  he  said.  "Lou- 
rengo  and  Pedro,  this  is  not  a  one-man  party. 
We  are  three  comrades,  who  now  become  five. 
If  at  any  tune  one  man  needs  to  command,  I,  as 
senior  officer,  will  take  that  command.  Other 
wise  we  are  all  on  an  equal  footing." 

"Just  so,"  Lourengo  agreed.  "If  it  were 
otherwise  you  would  still  be  three  men — not  five. 
Since  that  is  plain,  let  me  say  frankly  that  your 
big  canoe  had  best  stay  here,  also  everything 
you  do  not  need  in  the  bush.  Two  light  canoes 
are  faster,  easier  to  handle  and  to  hide.  Pedro 
and  I  have  our  own  canoe  and  will  provide  our 
own  supplies.  We  will  pick  out  a  three-man 
boat  for  you  and  load  it  with  what  you  select 
from  your  equipment.  After  that  every  man 
swings  his  own  paddle." 

"Cada  qual  par  si  e  Deus  por  todos.  Each  for 
himself  and  God  for  us  all,"  Pedro  summarized. 

"That's  the  dope,"  applauded  Tim.  "Now 
say,  Renzo,  old  feller,  what  d'ye  know  about 


BY  THE  LIGHT  OF  STORM          113 

these  here,  now,  Red  Bones  up  above  here?  And 
have  ye  got  anything  on  that  Raposy  guy?" 

Lourenso  shook  his  head. 

"I  know  little  of  the  Red  Bone  people,  for  I 
have  never  met  them.  That  is  one  reason  why  I 
now  should  like  to  meet  them.  I  have  heard  of 
them,  yes;  and  the  things  I  have  heard  are  not 
pleasant.  Yet  it  may  be  that  the  tales  are  worse 
than  the  people.  I  have  also  heard  terrible  stories 
of  the  light-skinned  cannibals,  the  Mayorunas; 
yet  I  have  been  among  the  cannibals  and  found 
them  not  so  bad — though  it  is  true  that  they  eat 
the  flesh  of  their  enemies;  I  have  seen  it  done.  But 
it  makes  a  very  great  difference  how  they  are 
approached  and  who  the  men  are  who  approach 
them.  It  is  possible  that  we  may  go  unharmed 
among  even  los  Ossos  Vermelhos — the  Red  Bones. 
We  shall  see. 

"Of  the  Raposa  I  think  I  do  know  something. 
I  have  seen  him." 

Everyone  except  Pedro  sat  up  with  a  start. 

"You  have  seen  him?"  exclaimed  the  coronel. 
"When?  Where?  How?  Why  have  you  not 
spoken  of  it?" 

"Because,  Coronel,  I  forgot  it  until  now.  It 
meant  nothing  to  us — yes,  Pedro  was  with  me — 
except  that  it  was  one  more  queer  thing  in  the 
bush.  In  time  I  might  have  remembered  it 
and  told  you.  But  you  know  we  have  been 
busy." 

"True.    But  go  on." 


114  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"It  was  only  a  little  time  ago.  We  were  re 
turning  from  the  scouting  trip  on  which  you  sent 
us  to  locate  new  rubber  trees.  We  were  seven — 
eight — seven — " 

"Eight  days'  journey  from  here,"  prompted 
Pedro. 

"Si.  We  were  in  our  canoe  when  a  sudden 
storm  broke  and  we  got  ashore  to  wait  until  it 
was  over.  The  place  was  on  an  ygarape — a 
creek — about  two  days  away  from  the  river.  The 
trees  were  large  and  the  ground  free  from  bush. 
In  a  flash  of  lightning  we  saw  a  man  peering  out  at 
us  from  a  hollow  tree. 

"He  was  naked  and  streaked  with  paint — 
that  was  all  we  saw  in  the  flashes  that  came  and 
went.  The  rain  was  heavy,  and  we  stayed  where 
we  were  until  it  ended.  Then  we  ordered  that 
man  to  come  out. 

"He  came,  and  he  held  bow  and  arrow  ready 
to  shoot.  We,  too,  were  ready  to  shoot,  but  we 
held  back  our  bullets  and  he  held  back  his  arrow. 
We  saw  that  his  paint  was  red  and  that  it  traced 
his  bones;  that  his  skin  was  that  of  a  tanned 
white  man  and  his  hair  was  dark  with  a  white 
streak  over  one  ear.  No,  we  did  not  notice  the 
color  of  his  eyes — the  light  was  not  good  and  he 
stood  well  away  from  us. 

"We  looked  around  for  other  men,  but  saw 
none.  We  asked  him  who  he  was  and  what  he 
wanted,  but  he  gave  no  answer.  He  looked  at 
us  for  a  long  time,  and  we  at  him.  Then  he  began 


BY  THE  LIGHT  OF  STORM          115 

walking  away  sidewise,  watching  us  steadily, 
holding  his  arrow  always  ready.  Finally  he  dis 
appeared  among  the  trees  and  we  saw  him  no 
more.  But  we  heard  him,  senhores;  twice  before 
we  lost  sight  of  him  he  spoke  out  hi  a  queer  voice 
like  that  of  a  parrot.  And  the  thing  he  said 
was,  'Poor  Davey!" 

McKay  thumped  a  fist  on  his  chair. 

"Davey!   David  Rand!" 

"Perhaps  so,  Capitao.  I  do  not  know.  But 
he  spoke  English." 

"By  thunder!  David  Rand!  Merry,  where' s 
that  picture?" 

Knowlton  was  already  unbuttoning  his  pocket 
flap.  Quickly  he  produced  the  photograph. 

"That  the  fellow?" 

Lourengo  studied  the  face.  The  eagerly  an 
ticipated  affirmative  did  not  come. 

"I  cannot  say  surely.  This  is  a  full-faced, 
clean-shaven  man  with  hair  close  trimmed. 
That  one's  face  was  gaunt,  covered  partly  with 
beard  and  partly  by  long  hair,  and  we  were  not 
close  to  him,  as  I  have  said.  I  would  not  say 
the  two  were  the  same  until  I  could  have  a  better 
look  at  the  wild  man." 

"You  didn't  follow  him?" 

"No.  Why  should  we?  He  had  done  nothing 
to  us  and  we  let  him  go  his  way.  We  did  look 
at  his  hollow  tree,  though.  But  it  was  only  an 
empty  tree,  not  his  home;  a  place  where  he  had 
stepped  in  out  of  the  storm.  We  had  other  things 


116  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

to  do,  so  we  got  into  our  canoe  again  and  paddled 
off." 

"You  can  find  the  place  again?" 

"Yes.  But  I  much  doubt  if  we  shall  find  him 
there." 

"Never  mind.  We've  something  to  start  with 
now,  and  that's  worth  a  lot.  Get  busy  with 
your  boats  and  supplies,  boys,  right  away.  Tim 
and  Merry,  let's  dig  out  our  essentials  and  start. 
We're  on  a  hot  trail  at  last.  Let's  go!" 


CHAPTER  XI.     OUT  OF  THE  AIR 

ArAIN  the  sun  fought  the  mists  of  a  new  day, 
casting  a  pallid,  watery  light  on  the  livid 
green  roof  of  the  limitless  jungle.  High 
up  under  that  roof,  more  than  a  hundred  feet 
above  the  ground,  the  morning  alarm  clock  went 
off  with  a  scream,  the  sudden  chorus  of  monkeys 
and  macaws  awaking  after  a  few  hours  of  silence. 
Down  on  the  eastern  shore  of  the  river,  in  a  little 
natural  port  where  the  shadows  still  lay  thick, 
men  stirred  under  their  black  mosquito  nets, 
yawned,  and  waited  for  more  light  before  starting 
another  day's  journey. 

To  three  of  the  five  men  housed  under  those 
flimsy  coverings  the  somber  hue  of  their  nets 
was  new.  On  leaving  Remate  de  Males  the  insect 
bars  had  been  clean  white;  and  though  they  had 
grown  somewhat  soiled  from  daily  handling, 
they  never  had  approached  the  drab  dinginess 
of  the  barriers  draping  the  hammocks  of  the 
Peruvian  rivermen.  In  fact,  their  owners  had 
been  at  some  pains  to  keep  them  as  clean  as 
possible,  folding  them  each  morning  with  military 
precision  and  stowing  them  carefully.  Wherefore 
they  were  somewhat  taken  aback  when  informed 
that  nice  white  nets  were  decidedly  not  the  thing 
in  this  part  of  the  world. 

"Up  to  this  place,  senhores,  they  have  done  no 


118  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

harm,"  Pedro  said,  before  leaving  the  coronel's 
grounds.  "But  from  here  on  they  will  not  do  at 
all.  The  weakest  moonlight — yes,  even  starlight 
— would  make  them  stand  out  in  the  darkness 
like  tombstones.  A  few  days  more  and  we  shall 
be  in  the  cannibal  country.  And  it  is  an  old  trick 
of  those  eaters  of  men  to  skulk  along  the  shore 
by  night,  watching  a  camp  until  all  are  asleep, 
and  then  sneak  up  with  spears  ready.  A  rush 
and  a  swift  stab  of  the  spears  into  those  white 
nets,  and  you  are  dead  or  dying  from  the  poisoned 
points.  I  would  no  more  sleep  under  a  white  net 
than  I  would  lie  in  my  hammock  and  blow  a 
horn  to  show  where  I  was.  Your  light  nets  must 
stay  here.  We  will  find  dark  ones  for  you." 

Thus  the  voyagers  learned  another  of  those 
little  things  on  which  sometimes  hinges  life  or 
death.  Even  McKay,  with  his  experience  of 
other  jungles,  had  never  thought  it  necessary  to 
drape  himself  in  invisibility  at  night.  But  when 
his  attention  was  called  to  it  he  recognized  its 
value  at  once,  and  the  white  nets  were  forthwith 
abandoned. 

Now,  on  the  first  morning  out  from  the  Nunes 
place,  the  three  Americans  stretched  themselves 
in  lazy  enjoyment  after  a  night  passed  without  a 
sentinel.  The  stretching  evoked  sundry  grunts 
due  to  the  discovery  that  then*  muscles  still  were 
lame.  The  long  steamer  journey  from  their  own 
land,  followed  by  the  daily  confinement  of  the 
Peruvian  canoe,  had  afforded  scant  opportunity 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  119 

for  keeping  themselves  fit,  and  the  sudden  neces 
sity  for  doing  their  own  paddling  had  found  every 
man  soft.  But  they  now  were  hardening  fast,  and 
the  steady  swing  of  the  paddles  was  proving  a 
physical  joy.  These  were  men  ill  accustomed  to 
sitting  in  enforced  idleness  for  weeks  on  end. 

Matches  flared  under  the  nets  and  cigarette 
smoke  drifted  into  the  air,  rousing  to  fresh 
activity  the  mosquitoes  humming  hungrily  out 
side.  Gradually  the  shadows  paled  and  the  weak 
light  reflecting  from  the  fog-shrouded  water 
beyond  grew  into  day.  The  nets  lifted  and  the 
bloodthirsty  insects  swooped  in  vicious  triumph 
on  the  emerging  men.  But  again  matches 
blazed,  flame  licked  up  among  kindlings,  a  fire 
grew,  and  in  its  smoke  screen  the  voyagers  found 
some  surcease  from  the  bug  hordes.  Soon  the 
fragrance  of  coffee  floated  into  the  air. 

Tim  yawned,  coughed  explosively,  and  swore. 

"Fellers  can't  even  take  a  gape  for  himself 
without  gittin'  these  cussed  bugs  down  his 
throat,"  he  complained,  and  coughed  again. 
"Gimme  some  coffee!  I  got  one  skeeter  the  size 
of  a  devil's  darnin'  needle  stuck  in  me  windpipe." 

"A  devil's  darning  needle?  What  is  that, 
Senhor  Tim?"  inquired  Pedro,  passing  him  a  cup 
of  hot  coffee.  When  the  liquid — and  the  "skee 
ter" — had  passed  into  Tim's  stomach  he  en 
lightened  the  inquirer. 

"Ye  dunno  what's  a  devil's  darnin'  needle? 
Gosh!  I'm  s'prised  at  ye.  I  seen  lots  of  'em  right 


120  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

on  this  here  river.  He's  a  bug  about  so  long" — 
he  stuck  out  a  finger — "and  he's  got  jaws  like  a 
crab  and  a  long  limber  tail  a  with  reg'lar  needle 
hi  the  end,  and  inside  him  is  a  roll  o'  tough  silk — • 
tough  as  spider  web.  And  he's  death  on  liars. 
Any  tune  a  feller  tells  a  lie  he's  got  to  look  out, 
or  all  to  oncet  one  o'  them  bugs  '11  come  scootin' 
at  him  and  grab  him  by  the  nose  with  them  jaws. 
Then  he'll  curl  up  his  tail — the  bug,  I  mean — 
and  run  his  needle  and  thread  right  through  the 
feller's  lips  and  sew  his  mouth  up  tight.  Then  he 
flies  off  lookin'  for  another  liar." 

"For  Deus!    And  the  liar  starves  to  death? " 

"Wai,  no.  0'  course  he  can  git  somebody  to 
cut  the  stitches.  But  the  needle  is  a  good  thick 
one  and  it  leaves  a  row  o'  holes  all  along  the 
feller's  lips.  Any  tune  ye  see  a  guy  with  li'F 
round  scars  around  his  mouth,  Pedro,  ye  '11  know 
he's  such  an  awful  liar  the  devil  bug  got  him." 

McKay  coughed.  Knowlton  blew  his  nose  into 
a  big  handkerchief.  Lourengo  squinted  sidewise 
at  Tim,  who  was  solemn  as  an  owl.  Pedro,  his 
eyes  twinkling,  bent  forward  and  scrutinized 
Tim's  mouth. 

"You  have  been  fortunate,  senhor,"  he  said, 
simply — and  stepped  around  to  the  other  side  of 
the  fire. 

"Huh?  Say,  lookit  here,  ye  long-legged 
gorilla — " 

Knowlton  exploded.  McKay  and  Lourengo 
snickered. 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  121 

"It's  on  you,  Tim!"  vociferated  Knowlton. 
"You  dug  the  hole  yourself.  Now  crawl  in  and 
pull  it  in  after  you." 

Tim  snorted  wrathfully,  but  his  eyes  laughed. 

"Aw,  what's  the  use  o'  trying  to  educate  you 
guys?" 

"You  swallowed  a  mosquito  just  now,  but  I 
cannot  swallow  that  devil  bug,"  Pedro  grinned. 

Tim  rumbled  something,  solaced  himself  with  a 
cigarette,  then  squatted  and  joined  the  others  in 
their  frugal  breakfast  of  coffee  and  chibeh — a 
handful  of  farinha  mixed  with  water  hi  a  gourd. 
When  it  was  finished  McKay,  who  never  smoked 
in  the  morning  until  he  had  eaten,  filled  a  pipe 
and  suggested: 

"Guess  we'd  better  plan  our  campaign.  We 
didn't  take  time  yesterday.  In  case  we  find  no 
trace  of  the  Raposa  at  the  place  where  you 
fellows  saw  him,  what's  your  idea?" 

Lourenc.o,  puffing  thoughtfully,  stared  into  the 
fire. 

"There  will  be  tune  enough  to  decide  that, 
Capitao,  after  we  have  visited  that  place," 
he  said,  slowly.  "Still,  perhaps  it  is  best  to 
make  some  plan;  it  can  be  changed  at  any 
time." 

For  a  moment  longer  he  looked  at  the  dying 
flame.  Then,  dropping  his  cigarette  stub  into  it, 
he  continued: 

"If  I  were  going  alone  to  find  a  man  among  the 
Red  Bones,  I  should  go  first  to  the  Mayorunas 


122  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

and  work  through  them  to  make  sure  of  a  friendly 
reception  by  the  other  people.  I  would — " 

"Why,  that's  the  very  thing  Schwandorf 
suggested!" 

"Yes?  I  have  not  heard  what  he  said.  Tell 
me." 

McKay  did  so.    Lourengo  smiled. 

"Sometimes,  Capitao,  the  devil  puts  into  the 
hands  of  men  a  weapon  which  is  turned  against 
himself.  So  it  is  now.  That  AUemao,  Schwan 
dorf,  never  expected  you  to  reach  the  people  you 
seek,  but  the  plan  is  good.  It  would  not  be  good 
if  you  followed  it  exactly  as  he  laid  it  out,  but 
things  have  changed;  and  what  you  could  not 
do  with  Peruvian  companions,  or  alone,  you 
perhaps  can  do  with  us.  I  will  show  you. 

"It  happens  that  I  have  been  twice  among  the 
cannibals  living  hi  a  certain  maloca  which  I  can 
find  again.  Perhaps  you  know  that  those  people 
live  in  scattered  malocas,  each  ruled  by  its  own 
chief—" 

"Yes,  we  know  about  that." 

"Good.  Now  if  we  went  to  any  maloca  where 
we  were  not  known  we  might  be  killed  at  once. 
But  at  that  maloca  of  which  I  speak  I  am  known 
to  the  chief  and  all  his  righting  men,  for  I  once  led 
them  on  a  raid  into  Peru.  So  they  will  remem 
ber  me — " 

"What's  that?"  Knowlton  interrupted,  in 
amazement.  "You  led  a  cannibal  tribe  on  the 
warpath?" 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  123 

"Just  so,  senhor.  It  is  a  long  story,  but  these 
are  the  facts: 

"There  was  in  Peru  a  gang  of  killers,  robbers — 
and  worse — who  called  themselves  the  Peccaries. 
They  raided  one  of  the  coronel's  camps  where  I 
was  hi  charge,  killed  all  my  gang  except  myself 
and  one  other,  and  used  us  two  as  slaves  and 
beasts  of  burden. 

"The  other  man  died  from  poison.  I  lived  only 
to  revenge  myself  on  those  foul  outlaws.  There 
was  much  rubber  of  the  coronel's,  worth  much 
money  at  that  time,  in  the  camp  they  had  raided. 
So,  after  driving  me  like  a  beast  to  their  strong 
hold  in  the  hills  of  Peru,  they  came  back  with 
boats  and  Indian  porters  to  get  out  that  rubber. 

"On  that  return  journey  I  tried  to  kill  the 
leader,  who  was  called  El  Amarillo — yellow- 
skinned.  I  failed,  and  he  had  me  nailed  with 
long  thorns  to  a  tree  where  I  might  hang  in  tor 
ment  for  days,  dying  slowly.  See.  Here  are 
the  marks." 

All  three  of  the  Americans  had  noticed  on  the 
previous  day  that  each  of  LourenQo's  hands  was 
disfigured  by  a  scar  which  looked  as  if  a  spike 
had  been  driven  through.  Now  he  held  those 
hands  forward  for  their  inspection.  Then  he 
pulled  off  his  loose  shirt  and  rolled  up  his  trousers. 
They  saw  other  scars  in  the  big  muscles  before 
the  armpits,  in  the  soft  flesh  under  the  ribs,  in  the 
thighs  and  calves. 

"The  dirty  Hun!"  Tim  grated. 


124  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"That  was  not  all,  Senhor  Tim.  They  also 
put  fire  ants  on  me,  which  bit  so  cruelly  that  I 
nearly  lost  my  mind  from  pain.  Then  they 
went  on,  intending  to  have  more  sport  with  me 
when  they  came  back  with  the  rubber.  But 
after  they  left  me  two  hunters  of  the  cannibal 
tribe  who  had  been  following  a  tapir's  track 
found  me  and  took  me  down  from  the  tree. 

"Now  the  Peccaries  before  this  had  stolen 
some  women  from  a  Mayoruna  maloca  and  were 
treating  them  like  dogs — I  saw  one  of  those 
women  brutally  murdered  while  I  was  captive  in 
the  outlaw  camp.  I  managed  to  tell  the  two 
hunters  I  could  lead  them  to  the  Peccary  strong 
hold  and  give  them  revenge.  They  carried  me  to 
their  maloca — I  could  not  walk — and  told  their 
chief  what  I  had  said.  The  chief  caused  my 
hurts  to  be  cured,  and  then  I  kept  my  promise. 

"I  guided  the  savages  to  the  outlaw  camp;  they 
surrounded  it,  and  in  the  fight  that  followed 
every  Peccary  was  killed  except  then-  leader. 
Now  that  cannibal  chief  has  not  forgotten  me — " 

"Wait  a  minute,"  protested  Knowlton.  "Did 
that  Peccary  leader  escape?" 

"No.  He  was  kept  alive  until  a  big  herd  of 
peccaries  was  met.  Then,  because  he  called  him 
self  'King  of  the  Peccaries/  he  was  nailed  to  a 
tree,  as  I  had  been,  and  told  to  make  the  pec 
caries  take  out  the  thorns.  The  wild  pigs  tore 
him  into  ribbons  with  their  tusks." 

Calmly   he    donned   his    shirt    again.      Tim, 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  125 

staring  at  him,  twitched  his  shoulders  as  if  a  chill 
had  gone  down  his  back. 

"Ugh!"  muttered  Knowlton. 

"So  now,"  Lourengo  resumed,  "if  I  can  find 
that  chief  again — he  may  have  been  killed  in 
some  tribal  fight  before  now — he  may  be  friendly 
to  all  of  us.  Or  he  may  not.  Savages  cannot  be 
relied  on  with  much  certainty.  But  if  any  of  the 
Mayorunas  will  help  us,  he  will.  It  is  worth 
trying." 

"And  if  he  is  not  friendly — "  Knowlton 
paused. 

"We  do  not  come  back,"  Pedro  finished. 
"Have  you  a  better  plan?" 

All  shook  their  heads. 

"Laurengo's  idea  is  excellent,"  said  McKay. 
"  I  was  thinking  along  the  same  line,  though  I  did 
not  know  he  had  any  such  friendly  relations  with 
a  chief.  That  makes  it  all  the  more  advisable  to 
try  it,  unless  we  find  the  Raposa  first.  We,  of 
course,  will  not  land  at  the  place  where  Schwan- 
dorf  told  us  to  go  ashore,  seven  days  from  here." 

"By  no  means,"  Lourengo  concurred.  "In 
five  days  we  leave  the  river  and  travel  along  the 
ygarap£.  If  we  go  to  the  maloca  it  will  be  from 
another  direction  than  the  river." 

He  began  preparing  to  travel.  The  others  also 
went  about  the  work  of  breaking  camp.  By  the 
time  the  canoes  were  loaded  the  mists  had  lifted 
and  the  river  lay  open  and  empty  before  them. 
In  the  bush  around  and  beyond,  gloom  still  lay 


126  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

thick  and  the  forest  life  yelped,  howled,  clattered, 
and  wailed.  But  out  on  the  water  it  was  broad 
day,  and  far  overhead  sounded  the  harsh  cries  of 
unseen  parrots  flying  two  by  two  in  the  sunlight 
above  the  matted  branches.  The  world  of  the 
pathless  tropic  wilderness,  ever  dying,  ever  living, 
was  about  its  daily  business.  The  five  invaders 
were  about  theirs. 

As  the  paddlers  dipped,  however,  Knowlton 
held  back. 

"Say,  Rod,  we  didn't  tell  these  fellows  about 
Schwandorf's  Indian.  Hold  up  a  second,  men." 

While  all  rested  on  their  paddles  he  spoke  of 
the  mysterious  messenger  dispatched  from  Naz 
areth.  Pedro  and  Lourengo  contemplated  the 
river,  then  frowned. 

"That  may  be  of  importance,  senhores,"  said 
Lourenc.o.  "It  may  change  everything  for  us. 
We  saw  a  lone  Indian  go  past  the  coroner s  place, 
traveling  fast,  three  days  before  you  came.  I 
would  give  much  to  know  where  he  is  now  and 
what  word  he  carries.  A  short  man  with  a  bad 
left  leg,  you  say.  We  shall  keep  watch  for  such  a 
man.  Perhaps  we  may  meet  him." 

Wherein  he  predicted  more  accurately  than 
he  knew. 

The  canoes  swung  out  and  the  paddlers  settled 
into  the  steady  stroke  to  which  they  were  growing 
accustomed.  Hour  after  hour  they  forged  on, 
the  Brazilians  adjusting  their  speed  to  that  of 
the  Americans,  who  had  not  yet  attained  the 


OUT  OF  THE  AIR  127 

muscular  ease  of  habitual  canoemen.  The  miles 
flowed  slowly  but  surely  behind  them,  the  sun 
rolled  higher  and  hotter,  the  silence  of  approach 
ing  noon  crept  over  the  jungle  on  either  side. 
Then,  as  the  time  drew  near  when  they  would 
land  for  a  more  hearty  meal  than  that  of  the 
morning,  Pedro  pointed  ahead. 

Up  out  of  the  bush  on  the  Peruvian  shore  rose 
a  vulture.  It  flapped  sullenly  away  as  if  dis 
appointed.  The  bushmen,  quick  to  note  any 
thing  that  might  be  a  sign,  paid  no  attention  to 
the  bird's  flight,  but  marked  with  unerring  eye 
the  spot  whence  it  had  taken  wing. 

"Let  us  cross,  comrades,  and  see  what  we  may 
see,"  Pedro  called.  "If  nothing  is  there,  we 
can  eat." 

But  something  was  there.  All  saw  it  before 
they  landed — the  stern  of  a  small,  speedy  canoe 
almost  concealed  in  a  narrow  rift  at  the  bottom 
of  the  bank.  In  the  soil  of  the  rising  slope  were 
the  prints  of  bare  feet.  And  Pedro,  scanning  the 
tracks  narrowly  after  he  and  the  others  reached 
shore,  asserted,  "These  were  not  made  to-day." 

Up  the  bank  they  climbed,  silent  and  watchful. 
At  the  top  Lourengo  took  the  lead.  In  under 
big  trees  the  five  passed  in  file.  A  short  distance 
from  the  edge  Lourenc.o  stopped,  looking  at  the 
ground.  The  others  spread  out  and  stared  at  the 
thing  he  had  found. 

Between  the  buttress  roots  of  a  tall  tree  was  a 
crude  shelter  of  palm  leaves.  Before  this  lay  the 


128  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

scattered  bones  of  a  man.  The  skull  had  been 
crushed  by  a  mighty  blow. 

The  bones  were  picked  clean — had  been  stripped 
and  torn  asunder  days  before,  and  the  vulture 
which  had  just  left  had  gotten  nothing  for  its 
belated  visit.  Among  them  were  remnants  of 
cloth,  a  belt  and  a  machete,  and  strands  of  coarse 
black  hair.  A  few  feet  away  lay  a  cheap  "trade" 
gun.  Lourengo  inspected  the  weapon  and  laid  it 
back. 

"Did  he  shoot  before  he  was  downed?"  asked 
Knowlton. 

"No.  The  gun  is  loaded.  His  death  came 
from  above."  The  bushman  ran  his  eye  up  the 
towering  tree,  then  pointed  to  a  large  dark  object 
on  the  ground  near  by. 

"Castanha — Brazil-nut  tree,"  he  explained. 
"That  heavy  nut  fell  and  smashed  the  Indian's 
skull  like  an  egg.  Indian,  yes.  His  gun,  his 
shelter,  and  his  hair  show  that.  And" — stooping 
and  pointing  at  one  of  the  bones — "that  bone 
shows  who  he  was.  See,  Capitao." 

McKay  looked  down  on  a  leg  bone.  At  some 
time  the  leg  had  been  broken  and  badly  set,  if  set 
at  all.  The  bone  was  crooked. 

"A  short  Indian  with  a  crooked  leg.  Schwan- 
dorf's  messenger!" 

"Si.  No  man  will  ever  receive  the  message 
he  bore.  He  camped  here  days  ago.  Now  he 
camps  here  forever." 


CHAPTER  XII.     THE  ARROW 

SLOWLY,  silently,  two  canoes  glided  along 
the  still,  dark  water  of  a  gloomy  creek  over 
arched  by  the  interlaced  limbs  of  lofty  trees. 

The  first,  propelled  by  the  slow-dipping  blades 
of  two  Brazilian  bushmen,  seemed  to  be  seeking 
something;  for  it  nosed  along  with  frequent 
pauses  of  the  paddles,  during  which  it  drifted 
almost  to  a  stop  while  its  crew  searched  the 
solemn  jungle  depths  reaching  away  from  the 
right-hand  shore.  The  second,  carrying  three 
bronzed  and  bearded  men  of  another  continent, 
was  only  trailing  the  leader.  It  moved  and 
paused  like  the  first,  but  the  recurrent  scrutiny  of 
the  farther  gloom  by  its  paddlers  was  that  of  men 
who  saw  only  a  meaningless,  monotonous  bulk  of 
buttresses  and  trunks  and  tangle  of  looping 
lianas.  In  this  dimness  and  bewildering  chaos 
the  trio  might  as  well  have  been  blind.  The  eyes 
of  the  tiny  fleet  were  in  the  first  boat. 

The  progress  of  the  dugouts  was  almost 
stealthy.  Not  a  paddle  thumped  or  splashed, 
not  a  voice  spoke.  They  moved  with  the  alert 
caution  born  not  of  fear,  but  of  wary  readiness 
for  any  sudden  event — like  prowling  jungle 
creatures  which,  themselves  seeking  quarry, 
must  be  ever  on  guard  lest  they  become  the 
hunted  instead  of  the  hunters. 


130  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

For  the  past  two  days  they  had  moved  thus. 
The  last  fresh  meat  had  been  shot  miles  down 
the  river,  where  a  well-placed  bullet  from  the 
rifle  of  McKay  had  downed  a  fat  swamp  deer. 
Since  that  day  not  a  gun  had  been  fired.  The 
'rations  now  were  tough  jerked  beef  and  monkey 
meat,  slabs  of  salt  pirarucu  fish,  and  farinha, 
varied  by  tinned  delicacies  from  the  stores  of  the 
Americans.  Henceforth  gunfire  was  taboo  unless 
it  should  become  necessary  in  self-defense. 

At  length  the  fore  canoe  halted  with  an  abrupt 
ness  that  told  of  back  strokes  of  the  blades  hidden 
under  water.  McKay,  bowman  of  the  trailing 
craft,  also  backed  water,  while  his  mates  held 
their  paddles  rigid.  The  two  boats  drifted  to 
gether. 

"This  is  the  place,"  Lourengo  said,  speaking 
low. 

The  Americans,  scanning  the  shore,  saw 
nothing  to  differentiate  the  spot  from  the  rest  of 
the  wilderness  growth.  Yet  Lourenc.o's  tone  was 
sure.  Pedro's  face  also  showed  recognition  of 
his  surroundings.  With  no  apparent  motion  of 
the  paddles — though  the  wrists  of  the  paddlers 
moved  almost  imperceptibly — the  canoe  of  the 
bushmen  floated  to  the  bank.  They  picked  up 
their  rifles,  twitched  their  bow  up  on  land,  and 
turned  their  faces  to  the  forest. 

"Stay  here,"  was  Pedro's  subdued  command, 
"until  you  hear  the  bird-call  which  we  taught 
you  down  the  river." 


THE  ARROW  131 

He  and  Louren$o  faded  into  the  dimness  and 
were  gone. 

"Beats  me  how  them  guys  find  their  way 
'round,"  muttered  Tim.  "I  could  land  here 
twenty  times  hand-runnin',  but  if  I  went  away 
and  then  come  back  I'd  never  know  the  place." 

"It's  all  in  the  feel  of  it,"  was  McKay's  low- 
toned  explanation.  "They  find  places  and  travel 
the  bush  as  an  Indian  does — by  a  sixth  sense. 
Take  them  to  New  York  City,  guide  them 
around,  then  turn  them  loose — and  they'd  be 
hopelessly  lost  in  ten  minutes." 

The  others  nodded  agreement  and  sat  watch 
ing.  In  the  shadows  no  creature  moved.  Afar  off 
some  bird  cried  mournfully  like  a  lost  soul  con 
demned  to  wander  forever  alone  in  the  grim 
green  solitudes.  No  other  sound  came  to  the 
listeners  save  the  ever-present  hum  of  the  big 
forest  mosquitoes,  to  which  they  now  had  become 
indifferent.  For  all  they  could  see  or  hear  of  their 
two  guides,  they  might  as  well  have  been  alone. 
Yet  they  knew  the  Brazilians  were  not  far  away, 
threading  the  maze  with  sure  step  and  scouting 
hawk-eyed  for  any  sign  of  danger. 

At  length  a  long  soft  whistle  sounded  hi  the 
bush  ahead.  Any  Indian  hunter  hearing  that 
sound  would  straightway  have  begun  scanning 
the  high  branches,  for  the  liquid  call  was  that  of 
the  mutum,  or  curassow  turkey.  But  the  waiting 
trio  knew  it  for  Pedro's  signal  that  all  was  clear. 
At  once  they  slid  their  canoe  to  shore,  lifted  its 


132  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

bow  to  a  firm  grip  on  the  clay,  and,  after  plumbing 
the  shadows,  quietly  advanced  in  squad  column. 

A  few  steps,  and  they  halted  suddenly  and 
whirled.  A  voice  had  spoken  just  behind  them. 
There,  squatting  leisurely  between  the  root 
buttresses  of  a  huge  tree,  Lourengo  looked  up  at 
them  in  amusement.  They  had  passed  within 
rifle  length  of  him  without  seeing  him. 

"Of  what  use  are  your  eyes,  comrades?"  he 
chaffed.  "In  the  bush  one  should  see  in  all 
directions  at  once.  You  were  looking  at  that 
patch  of  sunlight  just  ahead,  yes?  But  danger 
lurks  in  the  shadows,  not  in  the  glaring  light." 

Without  awaiting  an  answer,  he  arose  and  took 
the  lead.  At  the  edge  of  the  small  sunlit  space 
beyond  he  halted. 

"You  were  heading  for  the  right  place,"  he 
added  then.  "Look  around.  Do  you  see  any 
thing?" 

Swiftly  they  scrutinized  the  gap  left  by  the 
fall  of  a  great  tree  whose  gigantic  trunk  had 
bludgeoned  weaker  trees  away  in  its  crushing 
descent.  Seeing  nothing  unusual,  they  then 
peered  around  them.  Tim  suddenly  snapped  up 
his  rifle. 

"Holler  tree  there — and  a  man  in  it!  Hey! 
come  out  o'  there!" 

"Your  eyes  improve,"  Lourenco  complimented. 
"But  the  man  is  Pedro." 

Tim  lowered  the  gun  as  Pedro,  grinning,  came 
out  of  his  concealment. 


THE  ARROW  133 

"That  is  the  tree  of  the  Raposa,"  Lourengo 
went  on.  "The  lightning  flashing  in  from  above 
showed  us  the  man.  But  now,  senhores,  I  think 
we  must  tramp  the  bush  for  some  tune  before 
we  find  that  Raposa  again.  There  is  no  trace 
of  him  here." 

"  Hm ! "  said  Knowlton.  Striding  to  the  hollow 
tree,  he  peered  about  inside  it.  The  cavity  was 
almost  big  enough  to  sling  a  hammock  in,  but  it 
was  empty  of  any  indication  of  habitation, 
human  or  otherwise.  A  temporary  refuge — that 
was  all. 

"No  sign  anywhere  around  here,  eh?"  queried 
McKay. 

"We  have  found  none.  We  shall  look  farther, 
but  I  have  small  hope.  If  you  senhores  will 
make  the  camp  this  time  we  shall  start  at  once 
and  stay  out  until  dark.  Build  no  fire  until  we 
return.  And  if  you  hear  the  call  of  the  mutum, 
pay  no  attention  to  it;  we  may  use  it  to  locate 
each  other  if  we  separate,  and  also  perhaps  as  a 
decoy.  Any  wild  man,  red  or  white,  hearing  that 
call  would  seek  the  bird  making  it,  for  a  fine  fat 
mutum  is  well  worth  killing.  Keep  quiet  and 
be  on  guard." 

"Right.    Go  ahead." 

The  bushmen  turned  at  once  and  stole  away. 
The  others  returned  to  the  canoes,  transported 
the  necessary  duffle  to  the  base  of  the  hollow  tree, 
made  camp  with  a  few  poles,  and  squatted  against 

the  trunk  to  smoke,  watch,  and  wait.     Several 
10 


134.  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

times  they  heard  mutum  calls  receding  in  the 
distance.  Then  came  silence. 

The  sun-thrown  shadows  in  the  gap  crawled 
steadily  eastward.  Knowlton  tested  the  feed  of 
his  automatic,  which,  since  its  balkiness  in  the 
fight  with  the  Peruvians,  he  had  kept  carefully 
oiled  and  free  from  the  slightest  speck  of  rust. 
Tun  arose  at  intervals  and  paced  up  and  down  hi 
sentry  go,  eyes  and  ears  alert — a  useless  activity, 
but  one  which  provided  an  outlet  for  his  restless 
energy.  McKay  let  his  gaze  rove  over  the  small 
area  visible  from  their  post,  studying  the  con 
tours  of  the  towering  trunks,  the  prone  giant 
whose  fall  had  opened  the  hole  in  the  leafy  roof, 
the  parasitical  vines  twined  about  other  trees, 
the  thin,  outflung  buttresses  supporting  the 
mighty  columns — all  familiar  sights  to  him,  but 
the  only  things  to  occupy  his  vision.  So  limned 
on  his  brain  did  the  scene  become  that  after  a 
tune  he  could  close  his  eyes  and  see  it  hi  every 
important  detail. 

It  might  have  been  two  hours  after  Pedro  and 
Lourenso  had  departed — the  shadows  had  grown 
much  longer — when  over  McKay  stole  the  feeling 
that  he  was  being  watched.  He  glanced  at  his 
companions  and  found  that  neither  of  them  was 
looking  at  him.  Knowlton,  sitting  with  hands 
clasped  around  updrawn  knees,  was  dozing.  Tim, 
though  wide  awake,  was  staring  absently  at  a 
fungus.  The  captain's  eyes  searched  the  short 
vistas  all  about,  spying  nothing  new.  Still  the 


THE  ARROW  135 

feeling  persisted.  Then  all  at  once  his  roaming 
gaze  stopped,  became  fixed  on  a  point  some 
forty  feet  away. 

There  rose  a  rough-barked  red-brown  tree,  and 
from  it,  near  the  ground,  projected  a  blackish 
bole.  McKay  was  very  sure  the  protuberance 
had  not  been  there  before.  He  had  stared 
steadily  at  that  tree  more  than  once,  and  its 
shape  was  quite  clear  in  his  mind.  Was  that 
bump  an  insensate  wood  growth  now  revealed 
for  the  first  time  by  the  changing  sun  slant,  or — 

For  minutes  he  watched  it.  It  did  not  move. 
Then  Tim,  restless  again,  rose  directly  in  Mc 
Kay's  line  of  sight,  yawned  silently,  swung  his 
gun  to  his  shoulder,  and  began  another  slow 
parade  of  his  self-appointed  post.  When  he  had 
stepped  aside  McKay  looked  again  for  the 
puzzling  bole. 

It  was  gone. 

With  a  bound  the  captain  was  up  and  dashing 
toward  the  tree,  drawing  his  pistol  as  he  ran. 
But  within  three  strides  he  went  down.  A  tough 
vine,  unnoticed  on  the  ground,  looped  snakily 
around  one  ankle  and  threw  him  hard.  His  gun 
flew  from  his  hand.  As  he  fell  a  tiny  whispering 
sound  flitted  past,  followed  by  a  small  blow  some 
where  behind  him.  Ensued  a  gruff  grunt  from 
Tim  and  the  swift  clatter  of  a  breech  bolt. 

Raging,  McKay  kicked  his  foot  loose  and 
heaved  himself  up.  Empty  handed,  he  con 
tinued  his  rush  for  the  tree.  But  when  he 


136  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

reached  it  he  found  nothing  behind  it.  If  any 
thing  had  been  there  it  now  was  gone,  and  the 
vacant  shadows  beyond  were  as  inscrutable  as 
ever. 

Feet  padded  behind  him  and  Tim  and  Knowl- 
ton  halted  on  either  side.  A  moment  of  silent 
searching,  and  Tim  broke  into  reproach. 

"Cap,  don't  never  do  that  again!  If  ye  take  a 
tumble  hi  my  line  o'  fire,  for  the  love  o'  Mike 
stay  down  till  I  shoot!  I  come  so  near  drillin' 
ye  when  ye  hopped  up  that  I'm  sweatin'  blood 
right  now." 

In  truth,  the  veteran  was  pale  around  the 
mouth  and  his  broad  face  was  beaded  with  cold 
drops. 

"I  seen  more  'n  one  time  in  France  when 
I  felt  like  shootin'  my  s'perior  officer,  but  I 
never  come  so  near  doin'  it  as  jest  now.  I 
had  finger  to  trigger  and  had  took  up  the 
slack,  and  a  hair's  weight  more  pull  would 
have  spattered  yer  head  all  around.  And  be 
sides  givin'  me  heart  failure  ye  let  that  guy  git 
away.  We'll  never  find  him — " 

"You  saw  him?"  McKay  cut  in. 

"I  seen  somethin'  beyond  ye — couldn't  make 
out  what  'twas,  but  from  the  way  ye  was  goin' 
over  the  top  I  knowed  it  must  be  a  man.  And 
then  when  the  arrer  come — " 

"Arrow?" 

"Sure.  Missed  ye  when  ye  took  that  flop,  and 
stuck  in  the  tree  over  Bonder.  What  'd  ye  rush 


THE  ARROW  137 

the  guy  for,  anyways?  Whyn't  ye  drill  him 
from  where  ye  was?" 

In  the  reaction  from  his  sudden  fright  Tim  was 
as  wrathfully  ready  to  "bawl  out"  his  captain 
as  if  he  were  some  raw  rookie.  McKay,  with  a 
cool  smile,  explained  his  abrupt  action,  meanwhile 
reconnoitering  the  dimness  for  any  further  sign  of 
the  vanished  assailant.  None  showed. 

While  Tun  stood  vigilant  guard  the  other  two 
stooped  and  moved  around  the  base  of  the  tree, 
narrowly  examining  the  ground.  Beyond  it  they 
paused  at  one  spot,  fingered  the  soil  lightly,  and 
lit  a  match  or  two. 

"No  ghost,"  said  Knowlton.  "Barefoot  man. 
Didn't  leave  much  trace,  but  enough  to  show  he 
was  here.  Let's  look  at  that  arrow." 

Back  to  the  hollow  tree  they  went,  retrieving 
McKay's  pistol  on  the  way.  About  a  yard  above 
the  earth  a  long  shaft  projected  from  the  bark. 
Knowlton  reached  for  it,  but  McKay  held  him 
back  and  drew  it  out. 

"M-hm!  Thought  so!"  he  muttered.  "Poi 
soned." 

"Oof!  Nice,  gentle  sort  of  a  cuss,"  rumbled 
Tim.  "That  smear  on  the  point — is  that  poi 
son?" 

"Poison.  Quickest  and  deadliest  kind  of 
poison.  Mixes  instantly  with  blood.  Paralysis — 
convulsions — death.  The  least  scratch  and 
you're  gone.  Wicked  head  on  this  thing,  too: 
looks  like  a  piece  of  serrated  bone.  See  all  those 


138  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

little  barbs  along  the  edges?     War  arrow,  all 
right." 

"Meanin'  that  we'll  be  jumped  pretty  soon  by 
more  Injuns.  If  that  guy's  on  the  w^arpath  he 
ain't  alone." 

"Wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea  to  take  cover," 
nodded  McKay.  Turning  the  five-foot  shaft 
downward,  he  plunged  its  head  into  the  soft 
ground  and  left  it  sticking  there,  harmless. 

"Tim,  go  down  and  guard  the  canoes.  Merry, 
lie  in  between  these  roots  and  keep  watch  off 
that  way.  I'll  go  over  to  that  tree  where  the  spy 
hid." 

For  another  hour  the  camp  was  silent.  Each 
in  his  covert,  finger  on  trigger,  the  trio  watched 
with  ceaseless  vigilance,  expecting  each  instant 
to  detect  dusky  forms  crawling  up  from  tree  to 
tree.  Yet  nothing  of  the  sort  came.  Nor  did  any 
hostile  sound  reach  them.  Somewhere  parrots 
squawked,  somewhere  else  the  puppylike  yapping 
of  toucans  disturbed  the  solitude;  nothing  else. 

The  wan  light  faded.  The  sun  crawled  up  the 
trees,  leaving  all  the  ground  in  shadow.  Then, 
not  far  off,  sounded  the  soft  whistle  of  the 
mutum.  Suspicious,  the  watchers  held  their 
places  until,  with  another  whistle,  Pedro  came 
into  view,  followed  by  Lourengo. 

McKay  arose,  met  them,  and  briefly  explained 
the  situation.  They  nodded,  but  seemed  un 
disturbed. 

"We  can  start  a  fire  now,  Capitao,"  Lourengo 


THE  ARROW  139 

said.  "Night  comes  and  we  are  hungry.  There 
will  be  no  danger  before  another  dawn." 

With  which  he  leaned  his  rifle  against  a  tree 
and  started  immediate  preparations  for  a  meal. 
Pedro  continued  on  to  the  canoes,  made  sure 
they  were  drawn  up  high  enough  to  remain  hi 
place  in  case  of  any  sudden  ram,  and  returned 
with  Tim.  Around  them  now  resounded  the 
swiftly  rising  roar  of  the  nightly  outbreak  of 
animal  life.  The  sun  vanished.  At  once  black 
ness  whelmed  all  except  the  little  fire. 

"See  anything  while  you  were  out?"  asked 
McKay. 

"We  found  no  trace  of  the  Raposa,"  Lourengo 
evaded. 

"What  do  you  plan  to  do  now?" 

' '  Eat — smoke — talk — sleep. ' ' 

McKay  eyed  the  bushman  keenly,  feeling  that 
he  was  holding  something  back.  But,  feeling  also 
that  this  pair  knew  what  they  were  about,  he 
bided  his  time.  When  all  had  eaten  and  tobacco 
smoke  was  blending  with  that  of  the  burning 
wood,  Lourenc,o  drew  the  arrow  from  the  ground 
and  studied  it.  Then  he  passed  it  to  Pedro,  who, 
after  a  critical  examination,  held  it  in  the  blaze 
until  the  deadly  head  was  burned  away. 

"A  big-game  arrow  of  the  cannibal  Mayo- 
runas,"  said  Lourenc,o.  "The  point,  with  its  saw 
tooth  barbs,  is  made  from  the  tail  bone  of  the 
araya,  the  flat  devilfish  of  the  swamp  lakes.  That 
fish,  as  you  perhaps  know,  has  a  whiplike  tail 


140  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

I 

armed  with  that  bone;  and  if  he  strikes  the  bone 
into  your  flesh  it  breaks  off  and  stays  in  the 
wound,  and  you  are  likely  to  die." 

"But  in  that  case  death  comes  from  gangrene," 
McKay  remarked.  "This  point  has  been  dipped 
in  wurali  poison." 

"You  have  seen  such  arrows  before,  Capitao?" 

"Seen  the  poison  before,  yes.  Over  in  British 
Guiana.  The  Macusi  Indians  make  it  from  the 
wurali  vine,  some  bitter  root  or  other,  a  couple 
of  bulbous  plants,  two  kinds  of  ants — one  big 
and  black  with  a  venomous  bite,  the  other  small 
and  red — a  lot  of  pepper,  and  the  pounded  fangs 
of  labarri  and  couanacouchi  snakes.  They  boil 
all  this  stuff  down  to  a  thick  syrup,  and  that's 
the  poison.  The  man  who  makes  it  is  sick  for 
days  afterward." 

"Our  cannibals  make  that  poison  in  much  the 
same  way.  Yet  Guiana  is  many  hundreds  of  miles 
from  here,  and  our  Indians  know  nothing  of  those 
Macusi  people.  Queer,  is  it  not,  that  the  same 
plan  should  be  used  by  savages  thousands  of 
miles  apart?" 

"Rather  odd.  Must  have  started  from  some 
common  source  hundreds  of  years  ago  and  spread 
around.  Queerest  thing  is,  though,  that  a 
poison  so  deadly  doesn't  spoil  meat  for  eating." 

"Huh?"  exclaimed  Tim.  "Mean  to  say  them 
cannibals  can  kill  us  by  scratchin'  us  with  a 
poison  arrer  and  then  stummick  us  afterwards?" 

"Exactly.    You'd  taste  just  as  sweet  as  ever, 


THE  AKROW 

Tim — maybe  more  so.  Cheer  up!  They  say  it 
doesn't  hurt  much  to  die  that  way;  you're  para 
lyzed  so  quick  you  just  sort  of  fade  out." 

Tim  shook  his  head,  his  abhorrence  of  poison 
strong  as  ever.  Knowlton  spoke. 

"I've  heard  that  this  wurali  poison  is  much 
overrated,  that  it  will  kill  only  birds  and  monkeys, 
not  men." 

11  Par  Deus!  Whoever  said  that  was  a  fool 
trying  to  appear  wise!"  Pedro  snorted.  "We 
have  seen  the  poison  death,  and  we  know." 

McKay  also  shook  his  head. 

"Experiments  have  been  made  with  the  wurali 
of  the  Macusis,"  he  stated.  "It  was  tried  on  a 
hog,  a  sloth — and  a  sloth  is  mighty  hard  to  kill — 
also  on  mules,  and  on  a  full-grown  ox  weighing 
almost  half  a  ton.  It  killed  every  one  of  them." 

A  momentary  silence  followed.  Tim  gazed 
sourly  at  the  arrow,  now  harmless  but  still 
sinister. 

"  Urrrgh ! "  he  growled.  "  Cap,  ye  had  a  narrer 
squeak — come  near  gittin'  it  from  in  front,  and 
behind,  too.  Wisht  I  could  have  drilled  that 
guy." 

The  bushmen  grinned.  And  Louren§o's  next 
speech  was  amazing. 

"Be  thankful  you  did  not.  That  bullet  might 
have  killed  us  all." 

After  enjoying  their  puzzled  expressions  a 
moment  he  continued. 

"We  are  nearer  to  a  Mayoruna  maloca  than  I 


142  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

thought.  Not  the  one  I  intended  to  seek,  but  a 
smaller  one.  It  is  about  three  days'  journey 
from  here,  and  to  reach  it  we  must  go  through 
the  bush.  The  man  who  left  this  arrow  here  to 
day  is  from  that  maloca. 

"A  week  ago  his  brother  went  hunting,  and  he 
has  not  returned.  So  this  young  savage  and 
three  of  his  comrades  now  are  searching  the  bush 
for  some  sign  of  him.  To-day  they  separated, 
each  going  in  a  different  direction,  agreeing  to 
meet  again  to-night  at  a  place  less  than  half  a 
day's  journey  from  here.  This  man  circled 
around  and  worked  along  this  creek,  knowing  his 
brother  would  hardly  go  beyond  the  water.- 
He  spied  our  canoes,  then  sought  the  men  who 
had  come  in  them  and  found  you. 

"He  watched  you  for  some  time,  and  if  you 
had  not  rushed  at  him  he  would  have  slipped 
away  without  attacking  you,  for  he  was  alone  and 
he  saw  your  guns.  But  when  you,  Capitao,  sud 
denly  leaped  at  him  he  darted  away,  then 
stopped  long  enough  to  send  an  arrow  at  you. 
After  that  he  dodged  out  of  sight  and  ran  to  the 
camp  of  his  three  friends.  He  is  there  now, 
telling  about  you." 

"Great  guns!  You  chaps  are  wizards!"  cried 
Knowlton.  "How  do  you  know  all  this?" 

"Because  we  met  him  while  on  our  way  back 
here.  He  was  running  hard,  and  we  heard  him, 
so  we  blocked  him.  After  we  convinced  him  that 
we  were  friendly  we  talked  for  some  time — I  can 


THE  ARROW  143 

speak  their  tongue — and  he  told  us  about  you. 
He  was  sure  you  were  enemies  to  him  and  his 
people,  and  believed  also  you  had  killed  his 
missing  brother,  and  he  was  going  first  to  rejoin 
his  companions  and  then  hasten  to  the  maloca  to 
bring  all  their  fighters  against  you.  It  was  well 
that  we  met  him  in  time.  It  was  well,  too,  that 
you  did  not  shoot  him — or  even  shoot  at  him. 
His  companions  would  have  learned  of  it,  and 
then — death  for  us  all." 

"And  now  what?" 

"Now,  comrades,  we  all  go  to  the  maloca 
of  that  man.  We  meet  him  and  the  other  three 
to-morrow  at  the  place  where  we  talked  to  him 
to-day.  I  told  him  we  were  going  to  visit  that 
other  chief  whom  I  knew,  and,  though  he  was  at 
first  suspicious  of  a  trap,  he  finally  agreed  to  lead 
us  to  his  own  chief.  So  in  the  morning  we  march. 
Now  let  us  sleep." 

Knowlton  and  McKay  glanced  at  each  other 
and  nodded. 

"Luck's  with  us  so  far,"  said  the  captain. 

"Right.  We  just  march  right  into  Jungle 
Town  with  bodyguard  and  everything.  Pretty 
soft!  Wonder  if  they'll  turn  out  the  tomtom 
band  to  drum  us  in." 

Tun  said  nothing.  He  squinted  again  at  the 
headless  arrow,  then  inspected  the  breech  bolt 
of  his  rifle. 


CHAPTER   XIII.     THE   WAY   OF   THE 
JUNGLE 

DAWN  came,  dismal,  damp,  and  chill.  Mois 
ture  dripped  drearily  from  the  upper  reach 
es,  and  under  the  dense  canopy  of  leaves 
and  limbs  the  gloom  and  the  fog  together  made  a 
murk   wherein   the  early-rising  bushmen  were 
scarcely   visible  to  the  North   Americans   ten 
feet  away.    Yet  day  had  come,  or  was  coming; 
the  noise  of  the  animal  world  left  little  doubt  of 
that. 

By  the  light  of  a  sullen  smoky  fire  and  oil- 
smeared  torches  Pedro  and  Lourengo  made  up 
their  packs,  cording  them  roughly  with  bark- 
cloth  strips  brought  from  headquarters.  The 
Americans,  after  eating  a  more  solid  meal  than 
the  Brazilians  seemed  to  require,  also  rolled  their 
blankets,  hammocks,  nets,  and  other  parapher 
nalia;  strapped  the  outfits  into  the  army  pack 
harnesses  which  they  had  transported  for  thou 
sands  of  miles  and  never  yet  used;  crammed 
their  web  belts  with  cartridges;  slung  their 
sheathed  machetes  down  their  left  thighs;  looked 
to  their  guns;  and  announced  themselves  ready 
to  go. 

While  the  northerners  made  these  final  prepa 
rations  their  guides  slipped  away  for  a  tune. 
Pedro,  on  his  return,  announced  that  the  canoes 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  JUNGLE          145 

had  been  concealed.  Lourengo,  bringing  back 
the  freshly  filled  canteens  of  the  ex-army  men, 
delivered  with  them  the  marching  orders  of  the 
day. 

"If  you  thirst,  comrades,  drink  only  from  your 
canteens.  If  the  canteens  fail,  never  fill  them 
from  flowing  water  unless  the  Indians  also  drink 
from  the  stream.  There  are  always  small  pools 
to  be  found,  and,  though  their  water  may  be 
warm  and  stale,  it  is  not  likely  to  be  poisoned,  as 
the  streams  may  be. 

"To-day,  and  every  day  after  we  meet  the 
cannibals,  make  no  suspicious  moves.  Do  not 
speak  harshly.  Do  not  laugh  or  sneer  at  them. 
They  are  unreasoning  and  easily  insulted,  and 
lifelong  foes  when  angered.  Let  me  do  the 
talking. 

,  "Do  not  hold  a  gun  hi  a  threatening  manner 
or  draw  pistols  unless  you  must  fight.  Then  kill. 

"Above  all,  pay  no  attention  to  their  women. 

"Now  we  go.    I  lead." 

He  turned  and  strode  away  into  the  fog  as 
easily  and  surely  as  if  cat-eyed  and  cat-footed. 
Pedro  swung  nonchalantly  after  him.  The  others 
followed  in  order,  hitching  at  their  backstraps. 

The  ghostly  haze  about  them  now  was  paler, 
but  through  the  interstices  overhead  came  no 
glint  of  sunshine,  nor  even  the  glow  of  a  clear 
dawn.  The  whole  sky  evidently  was  overcast, 
and  around  the  marching  men  the  gloom  still  lay 
thick.  Yet  Lourengo's  eyes  seemed  to  bore 


146  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

through  the  shades  and  the  dark  shroud  blurring 
the  trunks,  for  his  steady  gait  did  not  falter.  The 
little  file  hung  close  together,  for  all  knew  that 
any  man  straggling  would  be  instantly  lost. 

Worming  around  gigantic  columns,  crawling 
over  rotting  trunks  long  laid  low,  changing 
direction  abruptly  when  blocked  by  some  great 
butt  too  high  to  be  scaled,  sinking  ankle-deep  in 
clinging  mud,  the  venturesome  band  wound  along 
through  the  wilderness.  Repeated  glances  at  his 
compass  showed  McKay  that  the  general  trend 
of  the  march  was  southeast;  but  the  impassable 
obstacles  encountered  at  frequent  intervals  neces 
sitated  not  only  detours,  but  sometimes  actual 
back-tracking. 

"Walk  four  miles  to  advance  one,"  was  his 
thought.  And  for  some  time  it  seemed  that 
such  was  the  case.  But  then  the  ground  changed, 
the  light  improved,  the  trees  thinned,  and  the 
undergrowth  became  more  dense — and,  para 
doxically,  the  rate  of  progress  improved. 

This  was  because  the  smaller  growth  gave  the 
two  leaders  a  chance  to  cut  their  way  straight 
onward  instead  of  dodging  about;  and  cut  they 
did.  Their  machetes  swung  with  untiring  energy, 
opening  a  path  through  what  seemed  an  unpene 
trable  tangle.  Now  every  yard  of  movement  was 
a  yard  gained.  But  the  ground  was  rising  and 
the  struggle  up  some  of  the  sharp  slopes  winded 
more  than  one  man. 

Then  the  slope  dipped  the  other  way,  and  they 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  JUNGLE          147 

slipped  down  into  a  ravine  where  water  gleamed 
darkly.  Here  a  halt  was  called  while  the  leaders 
sought  for  a  fallen  tree.  Tim  squatted  and 
mopped  his  face  for  the  hundredth  time. 

"Gosh!  This  is  what  I  call  travelin'!"  he 
panted.  "Flounderin'  round  in  mud  soup,  bit  to 
death  by  skeeters  and  them  what-ye-call-'em 
flies — piums —  sweatin*  yerself  bone  dry  and 
totin'  forty  thousand  pounds  on  yer  back,  not  to 
mention  hardware  slung  all  over  ye — this  ain't  no 
place  for  a  minister's  son  or  a  fat  guy,  I'll  tell  the 
world.  And  this  is  only  the  start!" 

A  call  from  Pedro  forestalled  any  answer.  The 
trio  struggled  along  to  the  spot  where  the  guides 
waited  at  the  butt  of  a  slanting  tree  trunk 
spanning  the  gulf.  As  they  reached  it  Pedro 
walked  carefully  up  the  trunk,  carrying  a  long 
slender  sapling,  which  he  lowered  and  fixed  in  the 
bottom  of  the  stream.  Then,  steadying  himself 
with  the  upper  end  of  this  pole,  he  continued  his 
journey  to  the  other  side,  where  he  flipped  the 
sapling  back  to  Lourengo.  One  by  one  the 
others  crossed,  slipping,  almost  losing  balance, 
but  managing  to  evade  a  fall.  Tim,  walking  the 
precarious  bridge  and  looking  down,  saw  that  the 
surface  of  the  water  was  dotted  with  the  heads  of 
venomous  snakes. 

"Are  you  following  your  trail  of  yesterday?" 
demanded  McKay. 

"No,  Capitao.  Yesterday  we  circled.  To-day 
we  go  as  nearly  straight  as  possible." 


148  THE  PATHLESS  TRAII/ 

"And  you  can  find  the  appointed  place  by  this 
new  route?"  The  captain's  tone  was  dubious. 

"Certainly.  Else  I  should  go  the  other  way. 
Come." 

Up  another  bank  they  toiled,  and  on  through 
rugged  country  which  seemed  momentarily  to 
become  higher  and  harder  to  traverse.  In  the 
minds  of  the  Americans  grew  suspicion  that,  for 
the  first  time,  the  Brazilians  were  bluffing;  it 
seemed  impossible  for  any  man  to  keep  his  sense 
of  direction  in  such  a  maze.  But  they  said  no 
word  and  followed  on. 

At  length  the  leader  paused  and  sent  the  long 
call  of  the  mutum  floating  through  the  trees.  No 
answer  came.  After  a  moment  the  line  moved 
on,  each  man  peering  ahead  with  sharper  gaze, 
each  holding  a  little  tighter.  To  the  Americans, 
at  least,  the  thought  of  possible  ambush  loomed 
large. 

Four  man-eating  savages,  hidden  hi  this  laby 
rinthine  tangle  and  armed  with  arrows  whose 
slightest  scratch  meant  death,  could  strike  down 
every  man  of  this  expedition  without  even  a 
wound  hi  return;  for  of  what  avail  were  high- 
power  guns,  automatic  pistols,  and  machetes 
against  invisible  enemies?  Yet  there  was  assur 
ance  in  Lourengo's  confident  air,  and  reassurance 
in  the  thought  that  these  tribemen  would  be 
unlikely  to  assail  a  band  avowedly  on  its  way  to 
visit  their  chief.  Besides — Knowlton  smiled 
grimly — even  if  the  Mayorunas  hungered  for 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  JUNGLE          149 

human  flesh  it  would  be  more  economical  of  labor 
to  let  the  meat  travel  to  the  slaughterhouse  on  its 
own  legs  than  to  kill  it  here  and  carry  it  home. 

Again  the  mutum  whistle  drifted  away.  Again 
no  answer  came.  For  a  short  distance  farther  the 
file  continued  its  march.  Then,  in  a  small  open 
ing  where  the  uptorn  roots  of  a  tree  rose  like  a 
wall  at  one  side,  it  halted. 

"The  place  of  meeting,"  Pedro  said.  All 
peered  around.  None  saw  anything  but  the  up 
standing  roots,  the  forest  jumble,  the  misty  ser 
pentine  lianas.  None  heard  any  sound  but  their 
own  hoarse  breathing,  the  solemn  drip  of  water, 
the  insect  hum,  and  the  occasional  melancholy 
notes  of  birds.  The  place  seemed  bare  of  life. 
Yet  upon  McKay  came  again  that  feeling  of  being 
watched. 

'•  Slowly,  deeply,  Lourenc,o  spoke.  The  words 
meant  nothing  to  his  mates.  They  were  like  no 
words  they  knew.  His  eyes  roved  about  as  he 
talked,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  saw  no  more 
than  did  the  silent  men  behind  him.  But  they 
guessed  that  he  said  he  and  they  were  there  as 
agreed,  with  peace  in  their  hearts,  and  that  he 
was  telling  the  men  of  the  wilderness  to  come 
forward  without  fear.  And  they  guessed  rightly. 

As  quietly  as  a  phantom  of  the  mist  a  man  took 
shape  at  the  edge  of  the  tree  roots.  Tall,  straight, 
slender,  symmetrically  proportioned,  with  un 
blemished  skin  of  light- bronze  hue,  straight  black 
hair,  and  deep  dark  eyes,  he  was  a  splendid  type 


150  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

of  savage.  Face  and  body  were  adorned  with 
glossy  paint — scarlet  and  black  rings  around  the 
eyes,  two  red  stripes  from  temple  to  chin,  wavy 
lines  on  arms  and  chest.  He  held  a  bow  longer 
than  himself,  with  a  five-foot  arrow  fitted 
loosely  to  the  string  and  pointed  downward,  but 
ready  for  instant  use.  Diagonally  across  his  body 
ran  a  cord  supporting  a  quiver,  from  which  the 
feathered  shafts  of  several  arrows  projected  above 
his  left  shoulder.  Around  his  waist  looped  an 
other  cord  from  which  dangled  a  small  loin  mat. 
Otherwise  he  was  totally  nude — a  bronze  statue 
of  freedom. 

Lourengo  spoke  again  in  the  same  quiet  tone. 
The  savage  stepped  warily  forward.  At  the 
same  moment  three  other  naked  men  appeared 
with  equal  stealth  from  tree  trunks  which  had 
seemed  barren  of  all  life.  Like  the  first,  each  of 
these  held  an  arrow  ready,  but  pointing  down 
ward;  and  each  moved  with  the  slow,  velvety 
step  of  a  hunting  jaguar.  Their  eyes  searched 
those  of  these  strange  men  of  another  world  who, 
wearing  useless  clothing,  carrying  heavy  weapons 
of  steel,  burdening  themselves  with  queer  weights 
on  their  backs,  now  invaded  the  wilderness  which 
they  and  their  fathers  had  roamed  untrammeled 
for  centuries.  The  invaders  in  turn  studied  the 
faces  of  the  Mayorunas,  of  whom  so  many  grue 
some  tales  were  told.  For  long  silent  minutes 
primitive  and  civilized  man  probed  each  other  for 
signs  of  treachery — and  found  none. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  JUNGLE          151 

Tim,  forgetting  the  orders  of  the  day,  spoke 
out  abruptly.  At  the  gruff  jar  of  his  voice  the 
wild  men  started  and  raised  their  weapons. 

"Say,  are  those  guys  cannibals?  I  was  lookin' 
to  see  some  ugly  mutts  with  underslung  jaws  and 
mops  o'  frizzy  hair,  like  them  Feejee  Islanders  ye 
see  pitchers  of.  Barrin'  the  paint,  I've  seen  worse- 
lookin'  fellers  than  these  back  home." 

With  which  he  gave  the  savages  a  wide,  un 
mistakably  approving  grin. 

"Shut  up!"  muttered  McKay. 

Lourengo,  unruffled,  made  instant  capital  of 
Tim's  remarks. 

"My  comrade  of  the  red  hair,"  he  said  in  the 
Indian  tongue, "  has  never  before  seen  the  mighty 
warriors  of  the  Mayorunas,  and  is  astonished 
to  find  them  such  handsome  men.  He  says 
his  own  countrymen  are  not  so  good  to  look 
upon." 

Slowly  the  menacing  arrows  sank.  As  the 
savages  studied  Tim's  wholesome  grin  and 
absorbed  the  broad  flattery  of  Lourengo  a  slight 
smile  passed  over  their  faces.  They  stood  more 
at  ease.  The  whites  sensed  at  once  that,  for  a 
moment,  at  least,  a  friendly  footing  had  been 
established,  and  relaxed  from  their  own  tension. 

Once  more  Lourengo  spoke,  motioning  toward 
the  farther  distances.  The  Indian  who  had  first 
appeared  now  replied  briefly.  Two  of  the  others 
stepped  back  to  their  trees  and  lifted  long,  hollow 
tubes. 


152  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"What's  them?"  demanded  Tim. 

"Blowguns,"  Pedro  answered.  "They  use 
them  for  small  or  thin-skinned  game.  See,  the 
two  blowgun  men  carry  also  short  darts  in  their 
quivers,  and  small  pouches  of  poison." 

"Uh-huh.  They  like  then*  poison  a  dang 
sight  better  'n  I  do.  Say,  are  them  guys  goin' 
to  march  behind  us?  I  don't  want  no  poison 
needles  slipped  into  my  back,  accidental  or 
other  ways." 

Two  of  the  savages  were  walking  toward  the 
rear  of  the  line.  Knowlton,  exasperated,  snapped 
out: 

"They'll  walk  where  they  like,  and  you'll  do 
well  to  give  us  more  marching  and  less  mouth. 
You  nearly  spilled  the  beans  just  now,  and  if 
Louren<jo  hadn't  said  something  that  pleased 
these  fellows  we  all  might  be  in  the  soup  this 
minute.  Pipe  down!" 

"Aw,  Looey,  I  only  said  these  guys  were  good- 
lookin'.  Ain't  no  fight  in  words  like  that." 

"You  heard  the  orders  this  morning.  Let 
Lourengo  do  the  talking.  That  goes!  We're 
skating  on  thin  ice — so  thin  that  if  it  breaks  we 
drop  plump  into  hell.  Less  noise!" 

"Right,  sir,"  was  the  sulky  answer.  "I'm 
deaf  and  dumb." 

"March,"  added  McKay.  The  head  of  the 
column  already  was  on  the  move,  led  by  the 
tallest  Indian  and  a  blowgun  man,  behind  whom 
walked  the  two  Brazilians.  The  whole  line  took 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  JUNGLE          153 

up  the  step  in  turn  and  passed  on  into  the  un 
known. 

Again  McKay  consulted  his  compass  at  inter 
vals,  finding  that  now  the  route  led  more  to  the 
south,  though  there  still  was  an  easterly  trend. 
After  a  tune,  however,  the  telltale  needle  informed 
him  that  they  were  proceeding  almost  due  east, 
and  glances  at  the  surroundings  showed  that  on 
their  right  was  a  densely  matted  mass  of  under 
growth.  Not  long  afterward  another  interwoven 
brush  wall  blocked  the  way,  and  this  tune  the 
leader  veered  to  the  west.  Not  until  an  opening 
appeared  did  he  resume  his  southward  course. 
It  dawned  on  McKay  that  the  savages,  having 
no  bush  knives,  were  accustomed  to  follow  the 
line  of  least  resistance.  This  obviously  increased 
the  distance  traveled. 

The  men  of  Coronel  Nunes,  too,  perceived 
this.  A  halt  was  called,  during  which  Lourengo 
talked  with  the  guide,  tapped  his  machete,  and 
evidently  protested  against  needless  detours. 
The  leader,  with  a  few  words,  pointed  south. 
Lourengo  nodded  and  replied.  The  march 
was  resumed,  and  when  the  next  impenetrable 
tangle  was  encountered  the  Indians  in  the  van 
stepped  aside,  the  machetes  of  the  Brazilians 
flashed  out,  and  a  way  was  cut  straight  through. 
From  that  time  on  the  long  knives  came  into 
frequent  play  and  a  direct  course  was  main 
tained. 

Suddenly,  with  a  grunt  of  warning,  the  tall 


154  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

tribesman  stopped.  The  plan  of  chopping 
through  instead  of  going  around  had  brought 
the  Indians  into  a  part  of  the  forest  which  they 
had  not  heretofore  traversed  in  their  search  for 
the  missing  hunter.  Now  they  stood  in  a  small 
trough  between  the  knolls,  under  good-sized 
trees  around  which  grew  little  brush.  The 
ground  was  soft,  almost  watery.  In  the  damp 
air,  faint  but  unmistakable,  hung  the  odor  of 
death. 

The  savages  at  the  rear  came  forward  at 
once.  All  four  of  them  spread  out  and,  sniffing 
the  air,  advanced  up  the  trough.  A  cry  broke 
from  one  of  them.  The  others,  and  the  white 
men,  too,  hastened  to  the  spot  whence  the  call 
had  come. 

Scattered  about  hi  the  soft  muck  were  bones, 
two  skulls,  bits  of  tawny  fur,  a  long  bow,  several 
big-game  arrows.  Around  them  the  ground 
was  marked  with  many  tracks.  Most  of  the 
imprints  were  of  the  vultures  which  had  stripped 
the  bones,  but  there  were  others — those  of  a 
barefoot  man,  of  a  great  cat,  and  of  a  couple 
of  wild  hogs.  The  peccary  tracks  went  straight 
on,  but  those  of  the  man  and  the  cat  showed 
that  a  fierce  struggle  had  occurred.  And  one 
of  the  two  grinning  skulls  was  that  of  a  jaguar. 

The  story  was  plain.  The  hunter,  following 
fast  on  the  trail  of  the  hogs,  had  suddenly 
met  the  jaguar.  He  had  shot  it;  one  arrow, 
blood  stained  for  more  than  a  foot  above  the 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  JUNGLE          155 

barb,  proved  that.  But  in  the  few  seconds  of 
life  left  to  it  the  animal  had  sprung  and  fatally 
torn  the  man.  Then,  as  usual,  had  dropped  the 
black  scavengers  of  the  sky  to  rend  them  both. 
Silently  the  men  of  the  bush  and  the  men  of 
the  north  looked  down  at  the  brief  history  writ 
ten  in  the  mud — a  story  only  a  week  old,  yet 
ancient  as  human  life  itself — primitive  man 
and  ferocious  brute  destroying  each  other  as  in 
the  prehistoric  days  when  saber-toothed  tiger 
and  troglodyte  hunted  and  slew  for  the  right 
to  live.  And  as  it  had  been  then,  so  it  was  now. 
The  living  read  the  tale  of  tragedy  and  passed  on, 
leaving  the  bones  behind  them.  Only,  before 
they  went,  the  Mayorunas  threw  the  remnants 
of  the  jaguar  aside  and  piled  the  bones  of  their 
dead  comrade  together  in  one  place.  Then, 
bearing  with  them  his  bow  and  arrows,  they 
resumed  their  way  without  a  word. 


CHAPTER  XIV.  A  DUEL  WITH  DEATH 

RAIN  came  and  went. 
The  first  night's  camp  of  the  strangely 
assorted  company  was  a  wet  one,  for 
well  on  in  the  day  the  skies  poured  down  the 
watery  weight  which  had  been  troubling  them 
since  morning.  Yet  even  in  such  miserable 
weather  the  four  tribesmen  of  the  Mayorunas 
declined  to  sleep  in  the  same  camp  with  the 
whites.  They  accepted  the  food  tendered  them, 
but  when  it  was  eaten  they  withdrew  to  some 
covert  of  their  own  to  spend  the  night.  Whereby 
the  whites  knew  that,  though  their  guides  now 
could  no  longer  suspect  them  of  killing  the  lone 
hunter,  they  still  were  not  accepted  as  friends. 

"Did  ye  say  them  guys  had  a  trick  o'  jabbin' 
men  in  then*  hammicks  at  night,  Renzo?"  was 
Tim's  significant  question  after  the  Indians  had 
departed. 

"Have  no  fear,"  Lourengo  assured  him.  "They 
have  promised  to  take  us  safely  to  their  chief." 

"How  much  is  the  word  of  a  cannibal  worth?" 
asked  Knowlton. 

"Worth  everything,  so  long  as  you  do  nothing 
to  make  them  forget  it,  senhor.  Being  uncivi 
lized,  they  are  not  liars." 

The  lieutenant  eyed  him  sharply,  half  minded 
to  regard  the  answer  as  insolent.  But  there 


A  DUEL  WITH  DEATH  157 

was  no  insolence  in  the  Brazilian's  straight 
forward  gaze,  and  McKay  laughed  approvingly. 

"Well  spoken!"  was  the  captain's  comment. 

"Among  those  people  there  are  but  two  great 
crimes,"  Lourengo  added.  "They  are,  to  speak 
falsely  or  to  be  a  coward." 

"Wherein  a  goodly  portion  of  the  so-called 
civilized  world  would  fail  to  measure  up  to  the 
standards  of  these  cannibals,"  McKay  said. 
"By  the  way,  have  you  asked  them  about  the 
Raposa?" 

"No,  Capitao.  It  is  as  well  not  to  put  into 
their  heads  the  idea  that  we  are  hunting  any 
one  here.  I  shall  say  nothing  of  that  matter 
until  we  reach  the  chief  who  knows  me." 

"Good  idea." 

With  that  the  talk  ended  and  all  sought 
their  hammocks,  dog  tired  from  the  day's  travel. 
No  watch  was  kept,  for,  as  Pedro  quaintly 
phrased  it,  "We  now  are  in  the  hands  of  God 
and  the  cannibals."  Nor  was  any  watch  needed. 

Daybreak  brought  sunlight.  While  the  break 
fast  coffee  was  being  boiled  the  four  wild  men 
appeared  silently  and  simultaneously,  one  bring 
ing  a  red  howling  monkey  and  another  a  large 
green  parrot  as  their  contributions  to  the  morn 
ing  meal.  Neither  bird  nor  animal  showed  any 
wound  except  a  slightly  discolored  spot  sur 
rounding  a  skin  puncture  no  larger  than  if 
made  by  a  woman's  hatpin — the  marks  left  by 
poisoned  darts  from  the  ten-foot  blowguns. 


158  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

When  the  meat  was  cooked  they  offered  por 
tions  to  the  whites,  of  whom  Tim  alone  refused. 

"I'd  as  quick  eat  a  rat  killed  with  Paris 
green,"  he  growled.  "No  poisoned  meat  gits 
into  my  stummick  if  I  know  it." 

"Bosh!"  scoffed  McKay.  "It's  perfectly 
wholesome — though  it's  tough  as  a  rubber  boot." 

"And  I  might  tell  you,  senhores,  that  among 
these  people  it  is  an  insult  to  refuse  any  food 
offered  you,"  added  Lourengo.  "I  advise  you 
to  forget  about  the  poison  hereafter  and  eat 
what  is  put  before  you,  even  if  it  stinks." 

His  advice  was  emphasized  by  the  evident 
displeasure  of  the  tribesmen,  who,  though  say 
ing  nothing,  looked  rather  grimly  at  the  man 
who  had  despised  their  provisions.  But  Lou 
rengo  then  smoothed  over  the  matter  by  telling 
them  that  the  red-haired  man  was  sick  at  the 
stomach  that  morning — which,  at  that  par 
ticular  moment,  was  not  far  from  the  truth. 

Soon  the  triglot  column  was  once  more  on  its 
way  across  the  hill  country,  which  hourly  grew 
higher  and  rougher — a  constant  succession  of 
ridges  and  ravines.  Lourengo,  pointing  out  the 
absence  of  water  marks  on  the  trees  of  the  up 
lands,  said  that  now  the  land  of  the  great  annual 
floods  had  been  left  behind;  for  even  the  sixty- 
foot  rise  of  waters  in  the  rainy  season  could  not 
reach  to  these  hilltops.  With  the  entry  into  this 
terra  firma  the  travelers  had  also  found  the 
sun  again,  the  dank  mist  of  yesterday  having 


A  DUEL  WITH  DEATH  159 

vanished.  Nevertheless,  the  going  was  fully 
as  hard  as  on  the  previous  day,  because  of 
the  density  of  the  bush  and  of  the  labor  of 
crossing  the  narrow  but  deep  streams  flowing 
at  the  bottom  of  nearly  every  clove.  Few  words 
were  exchanged,  every  man  needing  his  breath 
for  the  work  of  walking. 

As  before,  the  keen  machetes  of  the  Brazilians 
opened  a  direct  route  through  all  opposing 
undergrowth.  When  a  brief  halt  was  called 
at  noon  the  Mayorunas,  who  seemed  to  know 
exactly  where  they  were  despite  the  fact  that 
they  had  never  before  followed  this  straight 
course,  informed  Lourengo  that  much  circuitous 
traveling  had  already  been  saved,  and  that  by 
tramping  hard  until  sundown  they  might  suc 
ceed  in  reaching  the  tribal  maloca  that  night. 
But  McKay  vetoed  the  idea  of  a  forced  march. 

"This  gait  is  fast  enough  and  hard  enough," 
he  declared.  "No  sense  in  exhausting  our 
selves  to  save  a  few  hours'  time.  Also,  we  don't 
want  to  go  staggering  into  the  Mayoruna  vil 
lage  with  our  tongues  hanging  out  and  our  knees 
wabbling.  First  impressions  are  lasting  with 
such  people,  and  they  might  get  an  idea  we 
were  weaklings." 

To  which  all  except  the  savages,  who  did  not 
understand  the  language  of  the  white  man, 
assented  approvingly. 

Yet  it  was  the  Mayorunas  themselves  who 
delayed  arrival  at  their  maloca — the  Mayorunas 


160  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

and  a  monkey.  When  the  sinking  sun  was  still 
two  hours  high,  and  while  the  leader  was  forcing 
the  pace  as  it  determined  to  reach  home  that 
night  whether  the  rest  liked  it  or  not,  the 
monkey  upset  any  such  plan. 

He  was  a  big  gray  monkey,  and  he  was  high  up 
in  the  branches  of  a  tall  matamata  tree,  where  he 
deemed  himself  safe  from  the  many  creatures 
laboring  along  the  ground  below.  Wherefore  he 
chattered  impudently  down  at  them  and,  as  the 
tall  Indian  guide  halted,  showed  his  teeth  de 
risively.  The  savage  grunted.  The  man  behind 
hun  also  grunted  and  lifted  his  blowgun.  But 
the  leader  growled  at  him  and  the  blowgun  sank. 

With  a  swift  sweep  of  the  hand  the  guide  drew 
from  his  quiver  one  of  those  long,  poisoned  arrows 
and  fitted  it  to  the  bow  cord,  which  he  had  laid  on 
the  ground.  With  two  toes  of  each  foot  he  held 
the  cord  firmly  on  the  soil.  His  right  hand 
lightly  grasped  the  arrow  and  aimed  it  up  at  the 
insolent  primate.  His  left  drew  the  bow  up,  up, 
into  an  arc. 

Twang!  the  cord  thrummed  as  his  lifted  toes 
released  it.  The  arrow  whirred  aloft.  Then  a 
snarl  of  chagrin  from  the  marksman  blended 
with  the  grunts  of  his  mates.  The  arrow  had 
failed  to  reach  the  quarry. 

It  had  missed,  however,  by  a  mere  hand's 
breadth — missed  only  because  it  struck  the  limb 
directly  under  the  monkey,  where  it  hung  by  the 
tip  from  the  bark.  Muttering  something  which 


A  DUEL  WITH  DEATH  161 

may  have  been  a  Mayor-Una  malediction,  the 
savage  moved  aside  a  step  or  two,  drew  another 
arrow,  and  set  it  to  the  cord  with  more  care  than 
before.  But  while  he  did  this  the  monkey  was 
not  idle. 

Chattering  hi  rage,  the  annual  leaned  down, 
worked  the  arrow  loose  from  the  bark,  and 
threw  it  aside.  The  deadly  shaft  turned  hi  air, 
then  plunged  aimlessly  earthward.  At  that 
instant  all  below  were  watching  the  guide,  who 
in  turn  was  looking  at  his  toes  and  placing  the 
new  arrow  in  position.  Unseen,  the  other  missile 
hurtled  down — and  ripped  across  the  back  of  the 
marksman's  left  hand. 

For  an  instant  the  tall  cannibal  stood  as  if 
petrified,  staring  at  his  cut  hand  and  the  shaft 
now  sticking  upright  in  the  ground  beside  him. 
Then,  in  simple  symbolism,  he  reversed  the  new 
arrow  and  stabbed  it  also  into  the  dirt.  Dropping 
his  bow,  he  lay  down  on  his  back. 

"Yuara  will  draw  bow  no  more.  Yuara  goes 
to  join  the  spirits  of  the  dead,"  he  said,  calmly. 

Mechanically  Lourengo  translated  the  words. 
McKay  sprang  forward. 

"No!"  he  disputed.  "Not  without  a  try  for 
life,  anyhow!  Merry,  sling  a  tourniquet!  Quick!" 

Knowlton  jumped  to  the  side  of  Yuara,  tied  a 
handkerchief  above  the  elbow,  twisted  it  tight. 
McKay  whipped  from  a  pocket  a  keen-bladed 
knife.  In  one  swift  ruthless  slash  he  laid  open  the 
arm  from  elbow  to  knuckles. 


162  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"Keep  that  tourniquet  tight!"  he  snapped. 
"If  the  blood  once  gets  past  it  he's  gone.  Tim, 
get  out  the  salt  bag!  Lourengo,  tell  this  fellow 
to  breathe  deep  and  keep  it  up!" 

While  Tim  burrowed  into  his  pack  for  the  salt, 
Lourenco  spoke,  as  much  for  the  benefit  of  the 
other  tribesmen  as  for  that  of  Yuara;  for  the  three 
Mayorunas  stood  in  ominous  silence,  watching 
the  outrush  of  blood  caused  by  the  knife  of  the 
white  man. 

"The  white  man.  of  the  black  beard,  who  is 
very  wise,  will  save  Yuara  to  draw  many  a  good 
bow  if  Yuara  will  do  as  he  says.  Let  Yuara 
breathe  deeply,  that  the  spirit  of  life  remain  in 
him  to  fight  against  the  demon  of  death.  Even 
now  the  poison  rushes  out  of  the  arm  of  Yuara." 

"Yuara  cannot  live,"  was  Yuara' s  cool  reply. 
"Where  once  the  poison  has  entered,  there  fol 
lows  death." 

"Is  Yuara  then  a  coward,  that  he  will  die 
without  a  fight?  Then  he  is  no  Mayoruna,  for  no 
Mayoruna  is  a  coward.  Let  Yuara  die  if  he  will. 
His  comrades  shall  carry  to  their  maloca  the  tale 
that,  although  the  white  man  would  have  saved 
him,  he  died  like  an  old  woman,  because  he  had 
not  the  will  to  live!" 

Fire  shot  into  the  eyes  of  the  prostrate  man. 
He  ground  his  teeth  and  struggled  to  rise  and 
throttle  the  insulting  Brazilian. 

"No,  not  that  way,"  Lourenco  went  on  at 
once.  "Yuara  can  fight  the  death  demon  only  by 


A  DUEL  WITH  DEATH  163 

drawing  into  himself  the  air  in  which  is  the  spirit 
of  life.  The  wise  white  man  has  stopped  the 
poison  at  the  place  where  the  cloth  is  tied,  and  he 
knows  the  air  spirits  will  help  Yuara  if  Yuara  will 
breathe  deep  and  long.  If  he  will  not,  then  the 
white  man's  medicine  cannot  save  him.  Yuara's 
life  or  death  is  in  his  own  hands." 

In  his  heart  Lourengo  had  faint  hope  that  the 
injured  man  would  live.  But  he  knew  the  rest 
of  the  cannibal  tribe  must  soon  hear  the  tale  of 
this  incident  from  the  three  now  present,  and  he 
was  preparing  an  excellent  excuse  for  the  failure 
of  McKay  to  save  him.  Whether  Yuara  lived  or 
not,  the  Mayorunas  now  would  know  that  the 
whites  had  done  their  utmost  for  him,  and  that 
very  fact  might  make  a  vast  difference. 

Yuara,  though  his  eyes  still  flamed,  sank  back 
under  McKay's  restraining  weight  and  obeyed 
orders.  After  the  first  couple  of  breaths  he 
settled  into  his  task  and  his  chest  rose  and  fell 
rhythmically. 

"Here's  yer  salt,  Cap.  What  '11 1  do  with  it?" 

"You  come  here  and  hold  this  tourniquet. 
Don't  let  it  slip!  Merry,  fill  this  chap's  mouth 
with  salt.  Lourengo,  tell  him  to  hold  it  as  long 
as  possible,  then  swallow  it.  Now,  Merry,  fix 
up  a  good  strong  salt  poultice.  The  rest  of  you 
make  camp.  We've  got  a  stiff  fight  on  our  hands, 
and  we  can't  go  farther  until  we've  either  won 
or  lost." 

The  Brazilians  glanced  at  the  sun  shadows  and 


164  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

remained  where  they  were.  According  to  their 
experience,  Yuara  should  be  dead  within  ten 
minutes  at  most.  Time  enough  to  make  camp 
when  they  knew  how  this  venture  would  result. 
The  Mayorunas  also  stood  fast  and  watched  for 
the  shadow  of  death  to  blanch  the  face  of  their 
stricken  mate. 

But  the  minutes  dragged  past  and  Yuara's  eyes 
did  not  grow  dim.  His  first  resignation  over  and 
his  fighting  blood  aroused,  he  was  battling  grimly 
against  fate.  At  tunes  his  deep  respirations  were 
broken  by  sudden  gasps,  and  spasmodic  quivers 
shook  his  whole  body.  But  he  breathed  on, 
paying  no  heed  to  the  burning  pain  of  his  ripped 
and  salted  arm. 

"By  cripes!  he's  puttin'  up  a  man's  scrap!" 
blurted  Tim.  "Stay  with  it,  old  feUer.  Ye'll 
win  out  yet!" 

And  as  more  minutes  passed  and  the  wounded 
man  still  breathed,  a  murmur  of  wonderment 
passed  among  the  cannibals  and  the  men  of 
Nunes.  Yuara  should  be  dead,  yet  he  was  not 
even  paralyzed.  Such  a  thing  had  never  before 
been  known  in  this  bush. 

LourenQO  touched  Pedro's  arm. 

"Find  a  spot  where  we  can  make  camp,"  he 
said.  "I  must  stay  here  to  speak  to  the  wild 
men  if  words  are  needed." 

Reluctantly  Pedro  went  away.  Soon  he  was 
back  with  news  of  a  suitable  place.  He  found 
all  bending  closer  over  Yuara,  whose  breathing 


A  DUEL  WITH  DEATH  165 

had  become  stertorous  and  whose  eyes  seemed 
fixed. 

"Going!"  was  the  bushman's  thought.  But 
the  others  would  not  have  it  so. 

"How  'bout  a  shot  o'  booze  to  jolt  his  heart, 
Cap?"  suggested  Tim,  whose  whole  soul  was  in 
the  fight. 

McKay  nodded.  Knowlton  quickly  produced 
brandy  and  poured  a  stiff  dose  down  Yuara's 
throat.  It  took  hold  at  once,  and  light  came  back 
into  the  Indian's  eyes. 

"Got  a  good  chance  yet,"  McKay  asserted. 
"Don't  loosen  that  tourniquet.  Let  the  arm 
mortify,  if  necessary,  but  hold  that  blood  away 
from  the  heart  at  all  costs.  I'll  chop  his  arm  off  at 
the  shoulder  before  I'll  give  in." 

His  hard-set  face  showed  he  meant  it. 

Lourengo  spoke  to  the  Mayorunas,  urging 
that  camp  be  made  at  once.  He  and  Pedro 
strode  away,  and  all  three  of  the  Indians  followed. 

"Really  think  he'll  pull  through,  Rod?" 
Knowlton  asked,  then.  "If  he  does  you're  a 
miracle  worker." 

"It's  an  experiment,"  McKay  confessed, 
watching  Yuara  with  unswerving  intentness. 
"Never  saw  this  done,  but  it's  worth  a  try — and 
I  honestly  believe  it  will  work.  I  saved  an  Indian 
over  in  Guiana  once  by  cutting  off  his  arm  as 
soon  as  he  was  hit,  but  I  want  to  keep  this  fel 
low's  arm  for  him  if  possible.  Feed  him  some 
more  salt." 

12 


166  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL1 

Time  passed  unheeded.  Sounds  of  labor  not 
far  off  told  that  camp  was  being  built.  Presently 
the  absent  five  returned,  two  of  the  Mayorunas 
carrying  a  crude  but  strong  litter  constructed 
from  saplings  and  giant-fern  leaves.  McKay  rose 
stiffly  on  cramped  legs. 

"All  right.    You  can  move  him,"  he  consented. 

Carefully  Yuara  was  lifted  to  the  litter  and 
transported  to  the  new  camp.  There  the  Amer 
icans  found  not  only  the  open  shed,  or  tarribo, 
usually  constructed  by  the  Brazilians,  but  also 
a  somewhat  similar  shelter  erected  by  the 
Indians.  In  the  latter  stood  two  stout  crotched 
stakes,  firmly  braced — the  handiwork  of  Pedro 
and  Lourengo.  And  to  these,  with  tough  bush 
rope,  the  Indians  fastened  the  litter  of  Yuara, 
thus  forming  a  rude  but  effective  hammock. 

While  McKay  and  Knowlton  continued  their 
ministrations  to  the  stricken  man  the  rest  of  the 
camp  work  was  completed,  the  Mayorunas  mak 
ing  hanging  beds  for  themselves  from  withes, 
leaves,  and  bush  cord,  and  the  Brazilians  slinging 
the  hammocks  of  their  own  party  and  opening 
packs. 

Night  fell  and  the  wounded  man  lived  on. 
Supper  was  eaten,  pipes  smoked,  the  regular 
activities  of  the  early  hours  of  darkness  gone 
through — and  Yuara  lived  on.  His  deep  breath 
ing  had  become  automatic,  and  his  eyes  stared 
straight  up  in  concentration  on  his  battle  with 
the  death  demon. 


A  DUEL  WITH  DEATH  167 

At  length  he  was  seized  with  violent  nausea 
which  convulsed  him  for  a  time.  But  when  the 
spasms  passed  he  lay  back  more  easily,  and  a 
faint  smile  flitted  over  his  face  as  he  looked  at  the 
white  men. 

' '  Been  expecting  that, ' '  said  McKay.  ' '  Might 
loosen  that  ligature  now — just  a  few  seconds.  .  .  . 
Tighten  it!  All  right."  After  watching  the  sick 
man  a  little  longer  he  added :  l '  Now  I'm  going  to 
eat  and  smoke.  Feel  like  taking  a  drink,  too,  but 
guess  I  won't.  The  Indian  will  pull  through  now, 
I  think." 

When  he  had  returned  to  the  Indian  hut  with 
pipe  aglow,  Knowlton  asked  him,  "Now  tell  us 
how  you  doped  out  this  cure." 

"Combination  of  various  things.  Salt  is  a 
partial  antidote  to  venom  in  the  blood,  and  I  got 
it  into  him  in  three  ways — by  mouth  absorption, 
by  the  stomach,  and  by  the  salt  poultice,  which 
drew  out  some  of  the  poison  from  the  forearm 
and  helped  neutralize  what  remained.  Ripping 
his  arm  of  course  let  out  a  lot  of  bad  blood. 
Ligature  above  the  elbow  stopped  most  of  the 
rest — though  some  sneaked  past  that  point,  I'm 
pretty  sure. 

"Big  thing,  though,  was  the  deep  breathing. 
Remember  I  told  you  about  the  experiments  that 
killed  mules  and  an  ox?  Another  experiment  was 
this — opening  the  windpipe  of  a  poisoned  mule 
after  the  heart  stopped,  inserting  a  pair  of  bel 
lows,  and  starting  artificial  respiration.  After 


168  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

four  hours  of  this  the  mule  came  to  life  and 
stayed  alive — though  he  was  a  wreck  for  a  year 
afterward. 

"I  just  put  all  these  together,  made  the  Indian 
do  his  own  breathing — and  here  he  is.  I'm  going 
to  sit  up  awhile  longer  and  watch  him,  but  the 
critical  period  is  over.  You  chaps  can  turn  in." 

But  none  turned  hi  until  midnight,  when  no 
doubt  remained  that  Lourengo's  prophecy  would 
come  true — that  Yuara  would  live  to  draw  bow 
again.  Then,  when  the  slashed  arm  had  been 
thoroughly  cleansed  and  bound,  Lourengo  spoke 
once  more  to  the  savages. 

"The  medicine  of  the  wise  white  man  and  the 
air  spirits  have  saved  Yuara  from  the  death 
demon.  Yuara  has  fought  as  a  man  of  his  tribe 
should  fight,  and  so  has  lived  when  he  would 
have  died.  To-morrow  Yuara  shall  once  more 
see  his  people,  the  first  man  of  the  Mayorunas  to 
come  back  from  the  death  of  poison.  And  he 
and  his  comrades  shall  tell  of  the  white  man's 
wisdom,  without  which  he  now  would  lie  cold  on 
the  ground." 

"So  shall  it  be,"  Yuara  himself  faintly  an 
swered.  "Yuara,  son  of  Rana,  second  chief  of 
the  men  of  Suba,  will  not  forget." 

"Par  Dens!"  exclaimed  Lourengo.  "Com 
rades,  this  man  is  no  common  hunter,  but  son 
of  a  subchief.  Capitao,  you  have  done  good 
work  to-day." 


CHAPTER  XV.    THE  CANNIBALS 

THROUGH  the  long,  dim  shadows  of  early 
morning  the  little  column  passed  on  the  last 
leg  of  its  journey  to  themaloca  of  Suba,  chief 
of  this  outlying  tribe  of  the  Mayorunas.  At  its 
head  marched  Yuara,  his  left  arm  incased  hi 
bandages,  his  face  drawn  and  pallid,  his  stride 
stiff  and  springless,  but  still  carrying  his  weapons 
and  stoically  setting  the  pace  as  befitted  the  son 
of  a  subchief .  He  had  had  no  sleep ;  he  had  lain 
in  the  gates  of  death;  his  arm  ached  cruelly;  yet  a 
warm  glow  shone  in  his  hollow  eyes  as  he  reflected 
on  the  fact  that  in  all  the  unwritten  history  of  his 
people  he  was  the  first  man  to  survive  the  inex 
orable  power  of  the  wurali.  As  long  as  he  lived 
this  fact  would  lift  him  above  the  level  of  all  his 
fellows.  Even  the  chief  could  not  boast  of  such  a 
superhuman  feat. 

The  undergrowth  this  morning  was  not  so 
thick  as  it  had  been,  and  the  machetes  of  Lou- 
rengo  and  Pedro  stayed  in  their  sheaths.  The 
ground,  too,  was  more  level  and  the  footing  more 
firm.  After  some  three  hours  of  walking  the 
Americans  found  that  they  had  come  into  a  faint 
path. 

Somewhat  to  the  bewilderment  of  the  white 
men,  who  expected  the  Indians  to  increase  their 
speed  now  that  the  way  home  lay  under  their 


170  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

feet,  the  leading  pair  slowed  their  gait.  More 
over,  they  scanned  the  trail  with  intent  care  and 
watched  the  trees  along  the  way.  At  length, 
with  a  warning  grunt,  Yuara  stepped  out  of  the 
path  and  began  a  detour.  His  comrade  and  the 
Brazilians  followed.  The  Americans  stopped. 

"What's  the  idea?"  demanded  McKay,  look 
ing  along  the  innocent-appearing  path. 

"Probably  a  man  trap,  Capitao,"  answered 
Pedro.  "Follow  us." 

"Let's  see  the  trap  first." 

Lourengo  called  to  Yuara,  who  stopped  and 
grunted  two  words. 

"Si,  it  is  a  trap.    A  pit,  Yuara  says." 

Yuara  spoke  again,  and  Louren§o  added :  "He 
says  we  must  not  touch  it.  It  is  there  just  before 
you,  covered  so  cunningly  that  it  looks  exactly 
like  the  rest  of  the  ground.  The  cover  is  a  frame 
work  of  sticks  balanced  on  a  pole,  and  the  instant 
a  man  steps  on  it  it  gives  way.  He  falls  into  a 
nine-foot  hole  whose  sides  are  dug  inward,  so  that 
they  overhang  above  him.  There  the  cannibals 
find  him  and  kill  him.  I  fell  into  one  of  those 
holes  when  I  first  came  into  this  Mayoruna 
country,  so  I  know  just  how  they  are  made." 

"So?    How  did  you  get  out?" 

"There  were  two  of  us,  and  I  stood  on  the 
other  man's  shoulders  while  he  lifted  me  high 
enough  to  jump  out.  Then  I  tied  bush  rope  to  a 
tree  and  he  climbed  up  the  rope.  Come.  Yuara 
waits." 


THE  CANNIBALS  171 

After  a  short  circuit  around  the  danger  point 
the  party  returned  to  the  path,  and  as  they  went 
on  Laurengo  explained  further  concerning  the 
pit: 

"Every  approach  to  the  malocas  has  this  kind 
of  trap  hidden  in  it,  and  others  also.  The  Indians 
recognize  the  places  by  some  secret  signal  known 
only  to  themselves — a  certain  kind  of  stick  or 
vine  or  something  of  the  kind,  placed  where  it  can 
be  seen  by  those  who  understand.  The  traps  are 
made  to  stop  any  enemies  who  try  to  sneak  up  on 
the  malocas  and  catch  these  people  unawares. 
Another  kind  of  trap  is  a  spring  bow  or  a  blowgun 
shot  by  a  vine  stretched  across  the  path.  Still 
another  is  a  piece  of  ground  studded  with  poi 
soned  araya  bones  which  pierce  the  bare  feet 
of  anyone  walking  on  them.  It  is  well  for  us  that 
we  now  have  friendly  guides." 

"Quite  so,"  McKay  agreed,  dryly. 

Some  distance  farther  on  the  leader  again  left 
the  path,  and  this  tune  all  filed  after  him  without 
comment.  Pedro  pointed  significantly  at  a  thin, 
tight-drawn  bush  cord  stretched  across  the  path 
at  the  height  of  a  man's  ankle — the  trigger  which 
would  discharge  hidden  death  at  anything 
touching  it.  At  another  point,  perhaps  a  hundred 
feet  farther  along,  a  third  and  last  detour  was 
made,  and  this  time  the  nature  of  the  trap  was 
not  revealed  by  anything  on  the  ground.  No 
questions  were  asked. 
,  With  the  passing  of  these  three  menaces  Yuara 


172  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

resumed  his  former  pace  and  abandoned  his  cir 
cumspection.  Before  long  came  sounds  of  com 
munal  life — the  barking  of  a  dog  and  shouts  of 
children.  Then  suddenly  the  forest  thinned, 
and  after  a  few  more  strides  the  marchers  found 
themselves  in  a  clearing. 

Before  them  rose  a  big  round  house,  about 
forty  feet  high  and  a  hundred  feet  in  diameter, 
its  sides  composed  of  palm  logs,  and  its  roof  a 
thick  thatch  of  palm  leaves,  whence  smoke  oozed 
lazily  through  an  opening  at  the  peak.  A  single 
low  door,  not  more  than  four  feet  high,  opened 
toward  a  creek  a  few  rods  away  at  the  right. 
Near  this  doorway  a  couple  of  naked  children, 
boy  and  girl,  were  playing  with  the  dog,  while 
beyond  them  a  number  of  women,  also  nude, 
were  busy  at  some  kind  of  work. 

As  Yuara  and  his  fellow-tribesmen  entered  the 
open  space  the  boy  shouted  a  greeting  and 
started  running  toward  them.  Then,  seeing  the 
white  men  filing  from  the  bush  behind  the  war 
riors,  the  youngster  stood  as  if  shocked  motion 
less.  After  one  long  stare  he  screamed  and  bolted 
for  the  shelter  of  the  maloca.  Other  screams 
echoed  his  as  the  women  also  saw  the  bearded 
outlanders.  They,  too,  dived  through  the 
doorway. 

Out  from  behind  the  house  leaped  three  war 
riors,  two  of  whom  already  had  fitted  arrows  to 
their  bows,  while  the  third — a  powerful  fellow — 
clutched  a  four-foot  war  club.  Weapons  raised, 


THE  CANNIBALS  173 

faces  contracted  into  fighting  masks,  they  stared 
speechless  at  the  spectacle  of  the  subchief's  son 
calmly  leading  gun-bearing  whites  among  them. 

Knowlton,  though  his  attention  was  riveted  on 
the  astonished  warriors,  caught  the  quiet  snick 
of  Tim's  safe-lock  being  turned  off. 

"None  of  that,  Tim!"  he  warned.  "Put  that 
safety  on  again.  And  don't  hold  your  gun  as  if 
you  intended  to  use  it." 

"Aw,  I  was  jest  tryin'  her  to  make  sure  she  was 
all  right." 

"Put  it  on!"  snapped  the  lieutenant.  Another 
tiny  click  told  him  the  order  was  obeyed. 

Out  from  the  doorway  darted  another  warrior, 
stooping  low  to  avoid  hitting  his  head.  Others 
followed  instantly,  all  armed  and  ready  for 
action.  The  opening  was  still  vomiting  tribes 
men  when  Yuara  and  the  rest  reached  it.  But 
none  made  a  hostile  move  when  it  was  seen  that 
the  son  of  the  subchief  was  in  command  and  that 
the  strangers  seemed  friendly.  Yuara  spoke, 
briefly  but  authoritatively,  and  the  weapons 
sank.  Then,  with  a  word  to  his  three  com 
panions,  he  ducked  through  the  doorway.  The 
other  three  remained  where  they  were. 

"We  shall  have  to  wait  now,  comrades,  until 
Yuara  tells  his  father  and  the  chief  about  us," 
Lourengo  said.  "So  let  us  take  off  our  packs  and 
rest." 

He  set  the  example  by  laying  his  rifle  on  the 
ground,  unslinging  his  pack,  squatting  beside  it, 


174  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

and  coolly  rolling  a  cigarette.  Apparently  he  was 
paying  no  attention  whatever  to  the  savages,  who 
watched  his  every  move.  But  McKay,  glancing 
at  him  as  he  followed  suit,  saw  that,  for  all  his 
seeming  unconcern,  the  Brazilian  bush  rover  was 
keenly  watchful  and  that  his  gun  lay  within 
reach  of  his  hand. 

From  within  the  tribal  house  sounded  the 
monotonous  voice  of  Yuara.  After  listening  a 
moment  Lourengo  quietly  addressed  the  nearest 
warrior.  A  slightly  surprised  looked  passed  over 
the  cannibal's  face.  He  replied,  and  a  slow  con 
versation  ensued. 

Meanwhile  the  others  looked  over  the  array  of 
savage  fighting  men.  Except  for  difference  of 
stature,  build,  and  expression,  they  were  as  like 
as  brothers.  All  were  light  skinned — hardly 
darker  than  the  river-tanned  whites  themselves; 
all  had  straight-set  eyes,  with  no  hint  of  the 
slant  often  found  among  the  Indians  of  the 
Amazon  headwaters;  and  the  cheek  bones  of  all 
were  fairly  low.  Their  average  stature  was  a 
little  under  six  feet,  and  most  of  them  had  an 
athletic  symmetry  of  physique.  Their  feet, 
McKay  noticed,  were  small  and  shapely. 

All  wore  tall  feather  headdresses  of  parrot  and 
mutum  plumes.  All  had  the  scarlet  and  black 
rings  around  the  eyes,  the  streaks  from  temple 
to  chin,  the  wavy  design  on  their  bodies.  And 
each  wore  in  the  cartilage  of  his  nose  a  pair  of 
small  feathers  slanting  outward.  At  another 


THE  CANNIBALS  175 

time  and  under  other  circumstances  the  white 
men  might  have  smiled  at  those  nose  feathers, 
which  resembled  odd  mustaches;  but  as  they 
studied  the  austere  faces  around  them  they 
found  no  occasion  for  merriment.  Nor  was  the 
tension  lessened  by  the  sight  of  the  weapons 
grasped  in  the  strong  hands  of  the  warriors. 

Great  bows  and  arrows,  such  as  the  hunters 
had  borne,  were  supplemented  here  by  the  long 
clubs  of  heavy  wood  and  by  ugly  spears.  The 
clubs  terminated  in  balls  studded  with  jaguar 
teeth.  The  spears  were  triple  pronged,  each 
prong  ending  in  a  saw-toothed  araya  bone  and 
each  bone  darkened  by  the  fatal  wurali.  Fright 
ful  weapons  they  were — the  one  designed  to 
smash  skulls  and  tear  out  brains,  the  other  to 
stab  and  poison  at  the  same  thrust. 

Lourengo  stopped  talking,  and  the  others 
observed  that  now  the  wild  men  stood  more 
easily,  their  holds  on  their  weapons  loosened. 

"I  have  shown  them,  Capitao,  that  I  can 
speak  their  tongue,  and  told  them  we  go  to  visit 
the  chief  Monitaya  as  friend,"  he  explained. 
"They  tell  me  Monitaya  has  grown  great  since 
last  I  saw  him.  Another  tribe  which  lost  its 
chief  and  sub  chiefs  by  a  swift  sickness  has  joined 
his  own,  and  he  now  rules  two  big  malocas  to 
gether.  He  is  a  powerful  fighter,  and  if  he  is 
friendly  to  us  we  have  a  good  chance  of  success. 
Ah!  here  is  Yuara." 

The  son  of  the  subchief  came  through  the 


176  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

doorway  as  he  spoke,  followed  by  an  older  man 
whose  facial  resemblance  and  ornaments  in 
dicated  that  he  was  the  subchief  himself.  His 
headgear  was  more  elaborate  than  that  of  his  men, 
and  around  his  shoulders  and  down  his  chest 
hung  a  brilliant  feather  dress,  while  a  wide  belt 
of  green,  blue,  and  black  plumes  encircled  his  hips. 
Yuara  himself  had  inserted  feathers  in  his  nose 
and  donned  a  headband  of  tall  parrot  plumes  a 
trifle  more  ornate  than  those  worn  by  the  or 
dinary  fighters,  and  somehow  the  simple  addition 
seemed  to  transform  him  into  a  bigger,  fiercer 
man.  Also,  his  eyes  now  held  a  smoldering  light 
which  had  not  been  there  before. 

The  older  man,  Rana,  the  subchief,  glanced 
swiftly  along  the  line  of  new  faces.  Then  his  gaze 
returned  to  McKay.  His  mouth  set  and  his 
countenance  turned  hard.  He  spoke  curtly  to 
Yuara,  who  replied  with  one  word.  After  an 
other  long,  unpleasant  look  at  McKay,  who  stared 
coldly  back  at  him,  Rana  grunted  a  few  words 
and  re-entered  the  house. 

Lourengo,  nonplused  by  the  frigidity  of  the 
subchief  where  he  had  expected  gratitude  or  at 
least  hospitality,  glanced  questioningly  at  Yuara. 
But  the  young  man  stood  mute,  looking  straight 
ahead. 

"The  subchief  says  we  shall  enter  and  see  the 
chief.  We  must  leave  our  guns  outside." 

"Don't  like  that,"  muttered  McKay.  "That 
subchief  looks  ugly." 


THE  CANNIBALS  177 

"But  we  must  obey  or  provoke  a  fight,  Cap- 
itao.  Besides,  our  rifles  would  be  useless  inside, 
as  they  would  be  instantly  seized  if  we  lifted 
them.  So  let  us  make  the  best  of  it.  But  I 
think  you  can  carry  your  pistols  with  you;  they 
are  covered  by  the  holsters,  and  I  do  not  believe 
these  people  know  what  they  are.  And  since 
Rana  spoke  only  of  guns,  we  will  keep  our 
machetes.  Come." 

"Wait  a  second." 

McKay  dived  a  hand  into  his  haversack  and 
brought  forth  a  heavy  hunting  knife  with  a 
gaudy  red-and-white  bone  handle,  sheathed  and 
attached  to  a  leather  belt. 

"Brought  this  along  as  a  present  for  some 
Indian  who  might  do  us  a  good  turn,"  he  ex 
plained.  "Been  thinking  of  giving  it  to  Yuara, 
but  now  I'll  pass  it  to  the  chief.  Might  make  a 
difference.  All  right,  let's  go." 

With  confident  tread,  but  with  some  mis 
giving,  the  five  advanced,  leaving  guns  and 
packs  on  the  ground.  One  by  one  they  bent  low 
and  got  through  the  doorway.  Yuara,  with  a 
word  to  a  clubman  and  a  motion  to  the  equip 
ment,  followed  the  whites,  trailed  in  turn  by  his 
three  companions  of  the  forest.  The  clubman, 
after  a  curious  inspection  of  the  packs,  stood  on 
guard  among  them,  his  bludgeon  grasped  loosely 
but  suggestively,  ready  to  prevent  any  undue 
inquisitiveness  by  the  rest.  But  soon  he  found 
himself  alone,  for  the  other  tribesmen  transferred 


178  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

their  attention  and  themselves  to  the  interior  of 
the  maloca. 

Within  the  house  the  soldiers  of  fortune  halted 
a  moment,  adjusting  their  vision  to  the  sudden 
diminution  of  light.  Except  for  the  sunshine 
pouring  in  at  the  smoke  hole  above  and  at  the 
tiny  door  behind,  the  only  light  in  the  big  room 
came  from  small  cooking  fires  scattered  about 
the  place,  and  for  the  moment  details  were  with 
held  from  the  newcomers'  sight.  Then  they 
found  themselves  in  what  seemed  a  labyrinth  of 
poles  and  hammocks. 

Through  this  confusion  Yuara  passed  with 
familiar  step,  and  in  his  wake  the  travelers  went 
to  a  central  fire  around  which  was  a  compara 
tively  clear  space.  Beyond,  in  a  big  hammock 
dyed  with  the  symbolic  scarlet  and  black  and 
tasseled  with  many  squirrel  tails,  sat  a  fat,  small- 
eyed,  heavy-jawed  man  whose  elaborate  feather 
dress  and  authoritative  air  proclaimed  him  chief. 
Beside  him  stood  Rana  and  another  subchief ,  lean 
and  somber-faced.  Behind  this  bulwark  of 
tribal  might  huddled  the  women  and  children, 
staring  wide-eyed.  As  the  visitors  stopped  and 
returned  the  chief's  unwinking  regard  the  war 
riors  packed  themselves  at  their  backs,  blocking 
all  chance  of  exit. 

When  the  shuffle  of  feet  had  died  and  no  sound 
was  audible,  Yuara  began  to  talk.  In  his  de 
liberate  way  he  told  the  complete  narrative  of 
his  journey,  which  previously  he  had  sketched 


THE  CANNIBALS  179 

only  in  outline.  His  three  companions  corrob 
orated  his  tale  from  time  to  time  by  nods,  and 
when  the  discovery  of  the  slain  hunter's  bones 
was  described  one  of  those  three  stepped  forward 
and  laid  the  dead  man's  weapons  on  the  ground 
before  the  chief.  As  Yuara  went  on  he  touched 
his  bandaged  arm  and  pointed  to  McKay  and 
Knowlton.  And  as  he  concluded  he  motioned 
toward  Lourengo. 

Ignorant  of  the  Indian  language,  but  guessing 
the  nature  of  his  talk  from  his  motions,  the 
Americans  stood  patiently  awaiting  the  next 
move.  For  a  time  all  three  of  the  chiefs  remained 
silent;  but  all  of  them  studied  McKay,  standing 
bolt  upright  with  arms  folded  and  the  belt- 
wrapped  knife  partly  concealed  in  the  hollow 
of  one  elbow.  Though  it  was  evident  that  Yuara 
had  given  the  captain  full  credit  for  saving  his 
life,  the  faces  of  the  head  men  showed  no  sign  of 
friendliness.  In  fact,  their  expressions  were  dis 
tinctly  ominous. 

At  length  the  chief  turned  his  eyes  to  Lourengo. 
The  veteran  bushman  promptly  stepped  forward 
and  said  his  say.  At  the  end  he  turned,  took  from 
McKay  the  knife,  unrolled  the  belt,  and  dangled 
the  weapon  before  the  eyes  of  the  rulers.  They 
stared  at  it  in  obvious  ignorance  of  its  character. 
Not  until  the  Brazilian  drew  the  blade  from  its 
sheath  and  the  glint  of  steel  struck  then*  vision  did 
they  show  recognition.  Then  Chief  Suba  grunted, 
his  little  eyes  lit  up,  and  he  reached  for  it. 


180  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

v 

For  a  few  minutes  he  sat  gloating  over  the  gift, 
admiring  the  bone  handle,  hefting  the  weight  of 
the  long  blade,  while  the  subchiefs  gazed  in  envy. 
When  he  looked  up  his  face  was  beaming.  But 
then  the  sour-faced  subchief  at  his  left  hand 
muttered  something,  and  Suba's  visage  darkened. 
His  eyes  rested  again  on  McKay,  went  to  the 
bandaged  arm  of  Yuara,  dropped  to  his  knife — 
the  first  steel  knife  ever  owned  by  him  or  any  man 
of  the  Suba  tribe — and  rose  again  to  the  black- 
bearded  captain.  Abruptly  then  he  spoke  out. 

Lourengo  stared  in  blank  astonishment.  After 
a  puzzled  moment  he  shook  his  head  as  if  unable 
to  believe  he  had  heard  aright.  Suba,  scowling, 
repeated  what  he  had  said.  Lourengo  shook  his 
head  again,  this  time  in  vehement  denial,  and 
began  to  talk.  But  Suba,  rising  with  surprising 
agility  for  a  man  of  his  weight,  stopped  him  im 
periously  and  spoke  with  finality.  Slowly  the 
Brazilian  nodded  and  turned  to  his  captain. 

"I  do  not  undertand  this,  Capitao.  But  these 
are  the  words  of  the  chief: 

"'The  white  man  with  the  black  beard  tries 
a  trick,  but  it  does  not  deceive  the  free  men  of 
the  forest.  The  thing  which  he  thinks  to  be 
hidden  in  his  own  heart  is  known  to  Suba  and  his 
chiefs.  It  is  known  also  to  the  chief  Monitaya, 
and  to  his  chiefs,  and  to  his  men  also.  The  white 
man  is  bold.  And  now  his  own  boldness  shall  be 
his  death. 

"  'Since  the  white  man  has  said  he  goes  to  visit 


THE  CANNIBALS  181 

the  chief  Monitaya,  and  since  by  some  demon's 
power  the  white  man  has  saved  the  life  of  Yuara, 
who  is  a  man  of  Suba,  the  men  of  Suba  will  allow 
him  to  go  in  peace  from  this  place.  But  Suba  will 
see  that  he  and  his  companions  go  to  Monitaya, 
who  will  know  how  to  deal  with  his  visitors.  The 
men  of  Suba  will  take  the  strangers  at  once  to  the 
canoes  and  carry  them  to  Monitaya. 

"  'If  the  white  man  of  the  black  beard  and 
the  black  mind  thought  the  men  of  the  jungle 
blind  to  the  foulness  he  would  do  here,  he  is  a 
fool.  It  is  useless  for  him  or  his  men  to  lie  and  say 
they  know  not  what  Suba  means.  Let  him  look 
into  his  own  heart  and  he  will  know  well. 

"'Suba  has  spoken.' 

"Something  is  wrong,  Capitao,  but  I  do  not 
know  what  it  is.  It  will  do  no  good  to  argue. 
Let  us  go  at  once." 

Suba  snarled  commands  to  the  warriors.  They 
trooped  toward  the  door.  Without  another  word 
or  glance  at  the  three  chiefs  Lourengo  stalked 
after  the  Indians,  and  his  comrades  followed  with 
stiff  dignity. 

Outside,  the  savages  picked  up  the  rifles  and 
packs  and  carried  them  to  the  creek,  where  small 
canoes  lay.  The  five  strangers  were  allowed  to 
crowd  themselves  together  in  a  four-man  canoe, 
but  their  guns  and  packs  were  distributed  among 
four  other  dugouts,  into  which  armed  paddlers 
entered.  Other  Indians  brought  provisions  to  the 
outgoing  craft.  In  a  very  short  time  the  leading 


182  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

•« 

canoe  started  off  downstream,  followed  by  the 
boat  of  the  white  men,  behind  which  the  other 
craft  pressed  close  and  vigilant. 

They  swung  in  among  the  trees,  and  the  maloca 
of  Suba  was  blotted  out. 


CHAPTER  XVI.    BLACKBEARD 

"T"TTELL,"  said  Knowlton,  after  a  period  of 

V  V  silent  paddling, ' '  we  have  met  the  enemy 
and  we  are  hisn.  No  harm  done  so  far, 
though,  and  if  old  man  Calisaya,  or  whatever  his 
name  is,  wants  to  act  nasty  we  can  send  him  and 
a  few  others  along  the  road  to  glory  with  our 
gats.  We'll  travel  the  same  road,  of  course,  but 
we'll  take  company  with  us." 

"Si,  senhor,"  Pedro  agreed.  "And  besides 
your  pistols  we  still  have  our  machetes.  Yet  I 
believe  Lourengo's  words  to  the  chief  Monitaya 
will  make  all  well.  But  I  cannot  help  won 
dering — "  He  glanced  at  McKay. 

"I'm  wondering,  too,  Pedro,"  said  the  captain. 
"It's  hardly  possible  that  these  people  know  why 
we're  here,  and  hardly  likely  that  they  have  any 
interest  in  the  Raposa.  Lord  knows  I've  nothing 
else  up  my  sleeve.  It's  a  riddle  to  me." 

It  remained  a  riddle  to  the  rest,  for  no  explana 
tion  could  be  gleaned  from  the  Mayorunas.  At 
the  first  halt,  which  did  not  come  until  nearly 
sundown,  the  Americans  discovered  that  one  of 
the  men  in  the  fore  canoe  was  Yuara,  who  had 
been  lying  in  the  bottom  of  the  craft  and  sleep 
ing  all  the  afternoon.  From  him  Lourengo  at 
tempted  to  get  imformation  as  to  the  reason  for 
Suba's  enmity— but  in  vain.  The  tall  fellow 


184  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

spoke  not  a  word  in  reply,  and  his  face  remained 
unreadable. 

Camp  was  made,  and  by  Yuara's  direction  the 
packs  of  the  adventurers  were  restored  to  them. 
The  rifles,  however,  remained  under  guard  of 
savages  appointed  by  the  subchief's  son.  When 
the  night  meal  was  out  of  the  way  nothing  re 
mained  but  to  seek  hammocks  and  sleep,  for 
further  attempts  at  conversation  by  Lourengo 
met  with  the  same  silent  rebuff  from  every 
•cannibal  addressed.  None  showed  active  hos 
tility  by  either  look  or  manner,  but  it  was  plain 
that  between  wild  and  civilized  men  stood  a  wall 
— a  wall  not  too  high  for  the  jungle  dwellers  to 
leap  over  in  deadly  action  if  occasion  should  be 
given.  Wherefore  the  whites  held  themselves 
aloof,  said  little,  and  slept  early. 

"I  am  glad  Yuara  is  with  us,"  Laurengo  said. 
"As  he  promised,  he  does  not  forget  what  was 
done  for  him.  He  will  keep  this  band  in  control, 
and  unless  I  am  much  mistaken  he  will  tell 
Monitaya  all  he  knows  of  us,  which  surely  will 
not  do  us  any  harm.  At  any  rate,  we  can  sleep  in 
safety  to-night.  And  since  it  does  no  good  to 
puzzle  about  what  is  gone  by  or  to  worry  about 
what  has  not  yet  to  come  to  pass,  let  us  sleep 


now." 


"Ho-hum!"  yawned  Tun.  "Renzo,  ye  spill 
more  solid  sense  to  the  square  inch  than  any  feller 
I  seen  in  a  long  time.  We're  here  because  we're 
here;  to-day's  dead  and  to-morrer  ain't  bora 


BLACKBEARD  185 

yet,  and  liT  Timmy  Ryan  hits  the  hay  right  now. 
Night,  gents." 

|  So,  surrounded  by  man  eaters,  the  trailers  of 
the  Raposa  slept  far  more  securely  than  on  any 
night  down  the  river  when  their  companions  had 
been  supposedly  civilized  Peruvians.  Whether  a 
watch  was  kept  by  their  guards  during  the  night 
they  neither  knew  nor  cared,  since  they  had  no 
intention  of  attempting  escape. 

They  awoke  to  find  the  men  of  Suba  diminished 
in  number  by  half.  Yuara,  deigning  to  speak  for 
the  first  time  since  leaving  the  maloca,  explained 
that  the  absent  men  had  gone  hunting  for  their 
breakfasts.  Before  long  the  hunters  came 
straggling  back,  bearing  monkeys  and  birds, 
which  were  divided  among  their  companions. 
None  of  this  meat  was  offered  to  the  prisoners, 
who  ate  unconcernedly  from  their  pack  rations. 
Tim,  after  watching  the  Indians  sink  their  sharp- 
filed  teeth  into  broiled  monkey  haunches  and  tear 
the  meat  from  the  bones,  snorted  and  turned  his 
back  to  them. 

"Look  like  a  gang  o'  bloody-faced  devils 
gobblin'  babies,"  he  muttered.  "I'll  believe  now 
they're  cannibals,  all  right." 

So  uncomfortably  apt  was  his  simile  that  the 
others  grimaced  and  turned  their  eyes  elsewhere 
until  the  savage  meal  was  finished.  Then  their 
attention  became  riveted  on  a  queer  proceed 
ing  at  the  canoe  wherein  Yuara  had  journeyed 
yesterday. 


186  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

To  the  gunwales  amidships  two  of  the  men 
fastened  a  couple  of  small  crotched  posts.  In  the 
forks  was  laid  a  pole,  crosswise  of  the  boat,  and 
from  this,  by  slender  fiber  cords,  four  slabs  of 
wood  were  hung.  Strolling  down  to  the  canoe, 
the  travelers  found  that  athwart  its  bottom  had 
been  laid  a  crosspiece  supporting  two  shorter 
crotched  posts,  between  which  stretched  another 
transverse  pole;  and  from  this  pole  in  turn  the 
lower  ends  of  the  four  slabs  had  been  suspended. 
Now  the  savages  joined  the  tips  of  each  pair  of 
slabs  by  carved  end  sections,  and  the  contrivance 
seemed  to  be  complete — a  sort  of  grate,  its  bars 
sloping  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees. 

As  the  Americans  eyed  the  arrangement  in 
perplexity,  one  of  the  crew  picked  up  from  the 
bow  of  the  canoe  a  pair  of  mallets  the  heads  of 
which  were  wrapped  in  hide.  With  these  he 
struck  the  slabs  in  rapid  succession.  Out  rolled 
four  notes  of  astonishing  volume — the  first  four 
notes  of  the  musical  scale.  Again  and  again 
he  ran  them  over,  then  stopped.  The  deep 
tones  thrummed  away  along  the  creek  and 
died. 

"By  George!  a  big  xylophone!"  Knowlton  ex 
claimed,  admiringly. 

"  It  sure  talks  right  out  loud,"  said  Tim.  "  Lot 
o'  class  to  these  guys,  at  that.  Bet  this  is  their 
brass  band,  and  we'll  go  rip-snortin'  into  the 
next  town  like  we  was  on  parade.  Oughter  have 
some  flags  to  hang  up  in  the  boats,  and  mebbe  a 


BLACKBEARD  187 

drum  corps  to  help  out.  Wisht  I  had  a  tin 
whistle  or  somethin'  and  I'd  join  the  orchester. 
I  can  toot  a  whistle  fine." 

"My  favorite  instrument  is  the  old-fashioned 
dinner  horn,"  laughed  Knowlton.  "But  I  think 
you're  wrong — this  is  some  kind  of  signaling 
apparatus." 

"You  have  it  right,  senhor,"  Lourengo  af 
firmed.  "I  have  heard  this  sort  of  thing  used, 
though  I  never  before  saw  the  instrument  itself. 
Those  notes  will  carry  at  least  five  miles,  and  the 
cannibals  send  messages  by  striking  the  bars  hi 
different  order.  This  run  which  we  have  just 
heard  is  always  used  first,  and  no  message  is  sent 
until  a  reply  is  received." 

"Bush  telegraph,"  nodded  McKay.  "First 
call  your  operator  and  then  shoot  the  message  hi 
code.  Pretty  ingenious  for  a  bunch  of  absolute 
savages." 

Lourengo  turned  to  Yuara  and  asked  a  ques 
tion.  Yuara  curtly  replied. 

"  He  says,  Capitao,  that  this  is  to  tell  Monitaya 
we  come.  But  we  now  are  too  far  off  for  Moni- 
taya's  men  to  hear.  The  bars  are  made  ready 
before  starting  so  that  they  can  be  used  as  soon 
as  we  are  within  hearing.  He  says  also  that  we 
start  now." 

The  Mayorunas  already  were  entering  their 
canoes.  With  cool  deliberation  the  whites 
gathered  up  their  equipment  and  settled  them 
selves  for  the  journey  at  whose  end  lay  either  life 


188  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL"' 

or  death.    The  boat  of  Yuara  started,  and  once 
more  the  flotilla  was  on  its  way. 

For  an  hour  or  more  it  swung  on  among  the 
forested  hills  before  the  telegraph  instrument  was 
put  to  use.  Then  it  paused,  and  the  sonorous 
voice  of  the  xylophone  spoke  to  the  jungle.  A 
period  of  waiting  brought  no  reply. 

The  canoe  moved  on  for  a  mile.  Again  the 
mallets  beat  the  wood  in  the  ascending  scale  of 
the  call.  And  then,  faint,  mellow,  far  off,  sounded 
the  answer. 

While  every  man  sat  silent  the  bars  boomed  out 
their  fateful  news.  Slow,  brief,  deep  as  a  bell 
tolling  a  dirge,  a  reply  rolled  back.  And  with 
the  solemnity  of  a  funeral  cortege  the  canoes 
once  more  moved  on,  unhurried,  inexorable,  the 
measured  swing  of  the  paddles  beating  like  a 
pulse  of  doom. 

At  length  the  crew  of  Yuara  held  their  paddles. 
Yuara  himself  turned  toward  the  second  canoe 
and  talked  a  minute.  A  signal  to  his  men,  and 
his  boat  proceeded.  All  the  others  remained 
where  they  were. 

"He  goes  to  Monitaya  to  speak  of  us/'  said 
Lourenco.  "He  will  return.  We  have  only  to 
wait." 

"Yeah,"  grunted  Tim,  disgustedly.  "We'll 
wait  till  night  if  he  takes  as  long  to  go  through  his 
rigmarole  as  he  done  yesterday.  If  I  got  to  fight 
I  want  to  hop  to  it,  not  set  round  in  the  shade  o' 
the  shelterin'  palm  while  them  guys  are  heatin' 


BLACKBEARD  189 

up  the  stewpot.  This  waitin'  stuff  gits  my 
goat." 

"You  might  sing  us  a  song,  senhor,  to  pass 
the  time,"  Pedro  suggested,  with  a  tight-lipped 
smile. 

"Say,  I'll  do  that,  jest  to  show  these  guys  I 
don't  give  a  rip.  And  while  their  ears  are  dazzled 
by  me  melody  I'm  goin'  to  git  me  holster  un- 
bottoned  and  me  masheet  kinder  limbered  up. 
Git  set.  Here  it  comes: 

"Ol'  Hindyburg  thought  he  was  swell, 

Para-arley- voo ! 
He  made  the  kids  in  Belgium  yell, 

Pa-a-arley-voo! 

But  the  Yanks  come  over  with  shot  and  shell 
And  Hindyburg  he  run  like  hell, 

Rinkydinky-parley-voo !" 

Under  cover  of  his  outbreak,  which  made  the 
savages  clutch  their  weapons  and  glare  at  him  in 
mingled  suspicion  and  amazement,  there  pro 
ceeded  a  furtive  loosening  of  pistols  and  machetes. 

"A  noble  sentiment,  and  more  or  less  appro 
priate,"  grinned  Knowlton.  "But  don't  give 
them  another  spasm  for  a  few  minutes,  or  they 
may  rise  up  and  kill  us  all  in  self-defense.  They're 
on  the  ragged  edge  now." 

"Aw,  them  guys  dunno  how  to  appreciate 
good  singin'.  But  I  should  worry;  I  got  me  gat 
fixed  now  like  I  want  it." 

Time  dragged  past.  The  Americans  and 
Brazilians  smoked  and  exchanged  casual  com- 


190  THE  PATHLESS  TEAIL 

ments  on  subjects  far  removed  from  their  present 
environment.  The  Mayorunas  watched  them 
with  unceasing  vigilance,  as  if  expecting  a  sudden 
break  for  life  and  liberty.  Their  chief  had  inti 
mated  that  Monitaya  would  kill  these  men;  and 
now  was  their  last  chance  to  try  to  dodge  death. 
But  neither  the  black-bearded  McKay  nor  any  of 
his  mates  manifested  the  slightest  concern.  And 
at  last  the  canoe  of  Yuara  came  back. 

It  came,  however,  without  Yuara  himself.  The 
son  of  Rana  had  remained  at  the  malocas  ahead, 
whence  he  sent  the  command  to  advance.  Close 
ly  hemmed  in  by  the  men  of  Suba,  the  white 
men's  boat  surged  onward  at  a  brisk  pace. 
Around  a  bend  in  the  creek  it  went,  and  at  once 
the  domain  of  Monitaya  leaped  into  view. 

Two  big  tribal  houses,  each  considerably  larger 
than  the  one  of  Suba,  rose  pompously  in  a  wide 
cleared  space  beside  the  stream.  Before  them, 
ranged  in  a  semicircle,  stood  hundreds  of  Mayo 
runas — men,  women,  children — all  silently  watch 
ing  the  canoes  of  the  newcomers.  In  the  center 
of  the  arc,  like  the  hub  of  a  human  half  wheel,  a 
small  knot  of  men  waited  in  aloof  dignity,  four  of 
them  adorned  with  the  ornate  feather  dresses  of 
subchiefs,  backed  by  a  dozen  tall,  muscular 
savages,  each  armed  with  a  huge  war  club.  Before 
all  stood  a  powerful,  magnificently  proportioned 
savage  belted  with  a  wide  girdle  of  squirrel  tails, 
decked  with  necklaces  of  jaguar  teeth  and  ebony 
nuts,  crowned  by  plumes  which  in  loftiness  and 


BLACKBEARD  191 

splendor  surpassed  all  other  headgear  present — 
the  great  chief  Monitaya. 

At  the  shore,  beside  a  row  of  empty  canoes, 
Yuara  was  waiting.  He  mentioned  for  his  men 
to  bring  their  dugouts  to  the  regular  landing 
place,  and  when  they  obeyed  he  gave  com 
mands.  Then  he  turned  and  walked  toward 
Monitaya. 

"I  go,"  stated  Lourengo,  rising.  "You  stay 
here  until  called.  Yuara  has  told  his  men  to  leave 
all  weapons  in  the  canoes." 

He  walked  away  after  the  son  of  Rana,  and  if 
any  misgiving  was  in  his  heart  it  did  not  show  in 
his  confident  step.  Halting  before  the  big  chief, 
he  began  talking  as  coolly  as  if  there  were  not  the 
least  doubt  of  welcome  for  himself  and  those  with 
him.  Monitaya  gave  no  sign  of  recognition,  of 
friendliness,  or  of  enmity.  Proud,  statuesque,  he 
stood  motionless,  his  deep  eyes  resting  on  those  of 
the  Brazilian. 

"Sultry  weather,"  remarked  McKay. 

"Just  so,  Capitao,"  agreed  Pedro,  narrow 
eyed.  "We  shall  soon  know  whether  we  shall 
have  storm." 

"Indications  are  for  violent  thunder  and  light 
ning  soon,"  Knowlton  contributed.  "See  those 
husky  clubmen  awaiting?  Looks  as  if  a  public 
execution  were  about  to  be  pulled  off." 

"Yeah.  But  say,  ain't  that  chief  a  reg'lar  he- 
man,  though!  No  pot-bellied  fathead  like  that 
there,  now,  Suby  guy.  Hope  I  don't  have  to  drill 


192  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

him.    I  bet  I  won't,  neither.    He  looks  like  he  had 
brains." 

Hoping  Tun  was  right,  but  dubious,  all  watched 
the  progress  of  the  parley.  Lourengo  evidently 
was  stating  his  case  in  logical  sequence,  recalling 
to  the  chief's  mind  the  time  when  he  had  led  him 
to  revenge  against  the  Peccaries  of  Peru,  then 
going  on  to  tell  of  the  arrival  of  the  strangers  and 
the  object  of  their  search.  Yuara's  sudden, 
quick  glance  at  him  showed  that  the  Raposa 
had  been  mentioned  for  the  first  time.  A  little 
later  his  face  became  slightly  sullen,  and  the 
watchers  guessed  that  Lourengo  was  now  re 
ferring  in  somewhat  uncomplimentary  terms  to 
the  treatment  received  in  the  maloca  of  Suba. 
Soon  after  that  the  Brazilian  ended  his  speech. 

In  a  deep,  quiet  tone  Monitaya  spoke  first  to 
Lourengo,  then  to  one  of  his  subchiefs.  The 
bushman  beckoned  to  his  waiting  companions. 
At  the  same  time  the  subchief  stepped  out  and 
called  two  names.  As  McKay,  Knowlton,  Tun, 
and  Pedro  arose  and  stepped  ashore  with  the 
weaponless  men  of  Suba,  out  from  the  great 
human  arc  came  two  men.  All  advanced  toward 
the  chief.  And  though  the  Americans  were 
studying  the  central  figures  as  they  walked,  they 
also  noticed  that  the  pair  of  Mayorunas  who 
had  been  summoned  were  lame.  One  walked 
with  a  stiff  knee,  the  other  as  if  a  whole  leg  was 
paralyzed. 

"Squad — halt!"   muttered  McKay.     A   step 


BLACKBEARD  193 

and  a  half  and  the  four  stood  aligned  and  alert, 
two  strides  from  Monitaya. 

The  eyes  of  the  chief  dwelt  long  on  McKay,  and 
they  were  hard  eyes.  Without  shifting  his  gaze 
he  grunted  a  few  words.  The  two  crippled 
Indians  stumped  forward  and  stared  into  McKay's 
face.  Through  a  long  minute  the  Americans  felt 
a  sinister  tension  grow  in  the  air  about  them. 
Then,  slowly,  the  cripples  turned  about  and  faced 
their  ruler.  In  the  tones  of  men  sure  of  them 
selves,  they  spoke  one  word. 

With  the  utterance  of  that  word  the  tension 
broke.  Through  the  long  line  of  watching  tribes 
men  ran  a  murmur.  The  clubmen  relaxed  from 
their  ready  poise.  The  subchiefs  glanced  at  one 
another  as  if  disappointed.  And  the  stern  face  of 
Monitaya  himself  was  transformed  by  a  wide, 
friendly  smile. 

A  sweeping  gesture  and  the  cordial  timbre  of 
the  chief's  voice  told  the  Americans  plainly  what 
Lourengo  translated  a  moment  later. 

"We  are  welcome,  comrades.  We  shall  sleep 
in  the  maloca  of  Monitaya  himself  and  a  feast 
shall  be  made  for  us.  Our  lives  have  just  hung 
on  one  word,  but  now  that  the  word  is  spoken 
we  are  safe.  I  cannot  tell  you  more  now,  for  I 
do  not  wholly  understand  this  matter  myself 
as  yet — but  I  shall  learn.  Now  is  the  time, 
Capitao  to  give  presents,  if  you  have  any  for  the 
chief." 

"I  have.    But  our  packs  are  in  the  canoe,  and 


194  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  make  a  beast  of  burden  of 
myself  at  this  stage  of  the  game." 

"I  will  have  all  the  packs  brought  up,  Capitao. 
The  men  of  Suba  took  them  from  us  at  their 
maloca;  now  they  shall  restore  them  before  all 
these  people." 

He  addressed  Monitaya  affably,  then  spoke 
more  brusquely  to  Yuara.  That  young  man, 
whose  previous  austerity  now  had  dissolved 
into  open  friendliness,  uttered  four  words.  Im 
mediately  his  men  returned  to  the  canoes  and 
brought  up  not  only  the  packs,  but  the  rifles. 

From  his  blanket  roll  McKay  brought  forth  a 
cloth-wrapped  package  out  of  which  he  drew  a 
half-ax,  its  blade  gleaming  dully  under  a  pro 
tective  coating  of  grease,  which  he  swiftly 
swabbed  off.  From  his  haversack  he  produced 
a  heavy  chain  of  ruby-red  beads.  Under  the 
bright  sun  the  beads  glowed  like  living  things, 
and  the  glittering  steel  flashed  back  a  dazzling 
beam.  The  two  gifts  together  had  cost  consider 
ably  less  than  ten  dollars  in  New  York,  but  to  the 
chief  tain  they  were  priceless  treasures;  and  as 
McKay,  with  a  formal  bow,  extended  them  to 
him,  his  face  shone  with  delight.  Yet  he  made 
no  such  greedy  grab  for  them  as  had  been  dis 
played  by  Suba  when  tendered  the  knife.  His 
acceptance  was  achieved  with  a  calm  dignity 
which  brought  a  twinkle  of  approval  to  the  eyes 
of  the  white  men. 

In  the  same  dignified  manner  he  led  the  way 


BLACKBEABD  195 

to  the  maloca  which  evidently  was  the  older  of  the 
two  and  which  had  always  been  his  home.  The 
semicircle  of  his  subjects  broke  up  into  a  dis 
orderly  crowd  which  streamed  after  him  and  his 
guests  or  surrounded  the  men  of  Suba  with 
holiday  greetings.  Within  the  tribal  house  the 
adventurers  proceeded  to  the  central  space  where 
burned  the  chief's  fire.  There  Monitaya  ordered 
certain  hammocks  removed  to  make  room  for 
those  of  the  visitors.  Soon  the  travelers  were 
seated  at  ease  in  their  hanging  beds,  their  packs 
and  rifles  lying  on  the  ground  beneath  them, 
while  near  at  hand  clustered  groups  of  Mayo- 
runas,  staring  at  them  in  naive  curiosity. 

Pedro  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Senhores,  that  was  a  very  close  call,"  he  de 
clared.  "As  Lourengo  says,  our  lives  have  hung 
on  one  word.  What  was  that  word,  comrade?  " 

"The  word  was,  'No,'"  answered  Lourengo. 
"Monitaya  asked  those  two  crippled  men,  'Is 
this  the  man?'  As  you  saw,  they  looked  at  the 
capitao,  giving  no  attention  to  the  rest  of  us. 
Then  they  said,  'No.'  You  will  remember  that 
the  capitao  was  the  one  whom  Suba  also  picked 
upon.  As  soon  as  Monitaya  finishes  talking  with 
those  men  I  shall  ask  him  what  all  this  means." 

The  big  chief  was  giving  directions  to  a  score 
of  young  fellows,  who  presently  scattered  to 
various  parts  of  the  house  and  accoutered  them 
selves  for  hunting.  Thereupon  Lourenco  ap 
proached  Monitaya  with  the  familiarity  of  former 


196  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

acquaintance,  being  received  with  a  good- 
humored  smile.  For  a  time  the  two  conversed. 
As  they  talked  the  smile  of  the  ruler  faded  and 
his  face  grew  dark,  while  into  the  Brazilian's 
voice  came  a  wrathful  growl.  Finally  both 
nodded.  Lourengo  returned  to  his  hammock, 
frowning. 

"Capitao,  it  is  all  because  of  your  black  hah* 
and  beard.  Through  all  the  malocas  of  the 
Mayorunas,  far  and  near,  has  gone  the  word  to 
watch  for  a  big,  black-bearded  man  who  is 
neither  a  Brazilian  nor  a  Peruvian,  but  of  some 
country  unknown  to  these  people;  and  when 
such  a  man  is  caught,  to  kill  him  and  his  com 
panions  without  mercy.  And  the  reason  for  such 
a  command  is  this: 

"For  many  moons  the  Mayorunas,  especially 
those  of  the  smaller  and  weaker  malocas,  have 
been  losing  women.  From  time  to  time  sudden 
raids  have  been  made  by  gangs  of  gun-carrying 
Peruvian  Indians  and  mestizos — half-breeds — 
who  shot  down  the  defenders  of  the  houses  before 
they  could  reach  their  weapons,  and  carried  off 
girls.  This,  of  course,  is  nothing  new  here,  for 
such  things  have  happened  occasionally  for 
many  years.  But  within  the  past  five  years 
there  has  been  a  difference  in  these  attacks  which 
has  made  them  much  more  deadly. 

"These  raids  used  to  be  made  always  at  night, 
and  they  were  few  and  far  between.  But  of  late 
they  have  come  about  also  in  the  day,  at  times 


BLACKBEARD  197 

when  almost  all  the  men  of  the  small  malocas 
were  far  out  in  the  forest  hunting  meat  and  the 
women  had  little  protection.  Several  chiefs 
have  been  killed  by  the  raiders,  who  seemed  to  be 
acting  according  to  an  agreed  plan,  to  be  or 
ganized  for  this  work,  and  to  know  when  to 
strike  and  how  to  get  away  quickly.  And  what 
is  more,  the  men  who  did  this  were  not  chance 
parties  who  came  only  to  get  women  for  them 
selves  and  then  stayed  away.  The  same  men 
came  back  time  after  time. 

"A  few  of  these  were  killed,  but  only  a  few; 
and  all  the  dead  were  Peruvians.  Being  dead, 
they  could  tell  nothing.  But  the  Mayorunas 
felt  that  all  these  raids  were  directed  by  one 
mind.  And  they  became  sure  of  this  when 
one  captured  girl  escaped  by  killing  a  Peruvian 
with  his  own  knife  and  returned  to  her  own 
maloca.  She  said  the  raiders  took  her  and  the 
other  girls  to  the  big  man  with  the  black  beard, 
who  waited  at  a  safe  place  a  day's  march  from 
the  tribal  house. 

"A  few  weeks  later  another  small  maloca 
several  miles  from  here  was  attacked  at  night 
while  two  men  of  Monitaya  were  there,  having 
stayed  out  too  late  on  a  hunting  trip  and  taken 
refuge  with  their  neighbors  until  day.  Both  these 
men  were  hit  and  crippled  by  bullets  in  the  wild 
shooting  that  opened  the  attack.  One  was 
struck  in  the  knee,  the  other  in  the  lower  part  of 
the  back.  But  both  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 

14 


198  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

leader's  face  and  saw  that  he  was  the  black- 
bearded  man  himself. 

"So  you  see,  Capitao,  why  we  have  been 
near  death.  Suba  and  Monitaya  both  thought 
you  were  the  man.  We  were  lucky  to  escape 
alive  from  Suba,  and  still  more  lucky  that  here 
were  two  men  who  knew  the  face  of  the  black- 
beard." 

"Schwandorf!"  barked  McKay. 

"Yes,  Capitao,  it  must  be  the  German — " 

"I  know  it's  Schwandorf!  And  I  know  his 
game!  He's  a  slaver!" 

"A  slaver?" 

"That's  it.  Knew  I'd  seen  that  sneak  before. 
He  worked  the  same  game  in  British  Guiana 
eight  years  ago  on  a  small  scale.  Had  a  gang  of 
tough  bush  niggers  from  over  in  Dutch  Guiana 
to  do  his  dirty  work.  Stole  Macusi  girls — they're 
the  best-looking  Indians  in  B.  G. — and  sold  them 
like  cattle  to  gold  miners.  Cleaned  up  quite  a  pot 
before  the  English  got  on  to  him,  but  had  to  get 
out  of  the  country  on  the  hot  foot — didn't  have 
tune  to  take  his  gold  with  him.  His  name  wasn't 
Schwandorf  over  there,  and  he  had  no  beard;  he 
was  thinner,  too,  and  posed  as  a  Russian;  but  he's 
the  man.  Must  have  made  his  get-away  by  the 
back  door — down  the  Branco  to  the  Amazon. 
Now  he's  running  Mayoruna  girls  into  Peru. 
He  could  sell  them  to  rubber  men  or  miners  and 
make  good  money,  eh,  Lourengo?" 

"Si." 


BLACKBEARD  199 

"Sure.  And  that's  why  he  wanted  to  kill  off 
his  Peruvians — they  knew  too  much;  probably 
were  trying  to  bleed  him  for  hush  money.  He 
must  have  a  regular  slave  route  and  a  gang  of 
border  cutthroats  to  do  his  raiding — men  who 
don't  go  downriver.  Murderer,  slaver — wonder 
how  many  other  crimes  are  on  his  soul." 

' '  Them  two  are  enough, ' '  growled  Tun.  ' '  And 
he  'ain't  got  no  soul." 

"No  soul,"  echoed  Pedro.  "You  have  said  it, 
Senhor  Tun.  And  if  ever  these  people  capture 
him  he  soon  will  have  no  body." 


CHAPTER  XVII.    FEVER 

TT  N  the  maloca  of  Monitaya  a  feast  was  in  the 
making. 

Fires  glowed  all  about  the  great  room. 
Hunters  came  in,  bearing  birds  or  beasts  which 
were  placed  before  the  tribal  ruler  for  inspection 
and  approval.  Fishermen  armed  with  tridents  or 
crude  harpoons  arrived  with  sizable  trophies  of 
their  skill.  And  at  length  two  young  bowmen  ad 
vanced  proudly  with  a  freshly  killed  wild  hog. 
After  glancing  at  this  the  chief  added  to  his  usual 
nod  a  few  words  of  praise  which  made  the  hunts 
men  grin  with  all  their  pointed  teeth. 

Lourengo,  squatting  comfortably  on  a  jaguar 
skin  beside  the  lavishly  decorated  hammock  of 
Monitaya,  carried  on  a  lazy-toned  monologue 
which  probably  dealt  with  his  various  experiences 
since  his  last  meeting  with  these  people  and  which 
appeared  to  interest  and  amuse  the  chief.  The 
others,  lolling  back  in  mingled  fatigue  and  relief 
from  tension,  studied  the  interior  of  the  place  and 
watched  the  activities  around  them. 

As  hi  the  maloca  of  Suba,  the  small  forest  of 
poles  and  hammocks  seemed  a  higgledy-piggledy 
maze  wherein  was  neither  beginning  nor  end. 
Yet,  as  the  newcomers  took  tune  to  observe  it, 
they  presently  found  that  the  confusion  was  only 
apparent  and  that  there  existed  an  efficient  and 


FEVER  201 

orderly  arrangement.  The  hammocks,  seemingly 
slung  from  any  available  pair  of  poles  in  utter 
disregard  of  one  another,  really  were  arranged  in 
triangles.  On  the  ground  under  the  hanging 
beds  lay  woven  grass  mats  and  hides  of  the  sloth 
and  the  jaguar;  and  in  the  space  inclosed  by  each 
trio  of  hammocks  burned  a  small  fire.  The 
hammocks  were  the  beds  of  men,  the  mats  and 
furs  the  couches  of  women  and  children,  and 
each  fire  was  the  focal  point  of  the  family  residing 
in  that  triangle. 

Above  the  hammocks,  from  transverse  poles, 
were  suspended  the  weapons  of  the  men:  the 
great  bows,  the  long  blowguns,  the  fighting 
spears  whose  deadly  points  now  were  sheathed  in 
thick  scabbards  of  grass,  the  unpoisoned  fish 
spears  and  harpoons.  From  these  poles  also 
hung  the  quivers  of  arrows  and  darts  and  the 
small  rubber-covered  pouches  wherein  a  little 
fresh  poison  was  carried  by  warrior  or  hunter. 
Thus  both  the  ground  and  the  air  were  utilized, 
and  by  the  compactness  of  the  arrangement  an 
entire  family  with  its  worldly  goods,  was  enabled 
to  live  in  a  comparatively  small  space.  Looking 
around  the  wide  room  and  remembering  the  big 
half  circle  of  Indians  who  had  stood  outside,  the 
two  ex-officers  estimated  that  in  this  tribal  house 
and  its  twin  dwelt  seven  hundred  people. 

Tun  and  Pedro,  less  interested  in  the  Mayoruna 
domestic  economy  than  in  the  Mayorunas 
themselves,  were  scanning  the  figures  moving 


202  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

about  in  the  reddish  haze  of  smoke.  Most  of 
them  were  women,  all  nude  and  naively  un 
conscious  of  any  need  of  clothing.  Like  the  men 
of  the  tribe,  they  bore  the  red  and  black  rings  and 
streaks  on  face  and  body;  but,  unlike  the  males, 
each  wore  a  facial  ornament  hi  the  shape  of  an 
oval  piece  of  wood  thrust  through  the  lower  lip. 
From  tune  to  tune  those  near  by  glanced  up  from 
their  work  and  gave  the  new  men  unmistakably 
friendly  looks — particularly  several  young  but 
well-grown  girls  who  obviously  were  still  un- 
mated.  In  fact,  these  last  smiled  openly  at  the 
lithe,  handsome  Pedro,  and  red  Tim  was  by  no 
means  overlooked. 

"I  got  me  orders,"  said  Tun,  sotto  voce,  "and 
I'm  danged  if  I  crack  a  smile  back  at  them  girls. 
But  I  sure  feel  like  grinnin'.  Watch  yourself, 
old-tuner;  they're  tryin'  to  flirt  with  ye." 

Pedro,  mindful  of  watchful  eyes,  turned  his 
gaze  to  Tun's  face  before  allowing  himself  to 
smile.  Then  he  laughed. 

"Do  not  fear,"  he  said.  "My  heart  is  still  my 
own." 

"Same  here.  Specially  when  I  remember  these 
females  would  grin  jest  the  same  if  them  club 
swingers  had  spattered  our  brains  all  over  the 
front  yard  awhile  back.  But  I  wisht  sombody'd 
give  the  girls  a  nightie  or  somethin'  to  wear.  I 
been  around  some  and  I  seen  quite  a  lot,  but  I 
ain't  used  to  bein'  vamped  by  a  bunch  of  un 
dressed  kids  with  goo-goo  eyes  the  size  of  a  plate 


FEVER  203 

o'  fish  balls.  I'm  only  a  bashful  country  kid 
from  N'Yawk." 

"Live  and  learn,"  chuckled  Pedro.  "And 
clothes  really  have  nothing  to  do  with  modesty." 

"True  for  ye.  Clothes  is  mostly  a  disguise, 
anyhow,  specially  with  women,  and  an  awful 
expense,  besides.  These  guys  are  lucky,  I'll  say; 
they  'ain't  got  to  buy  their  wives  no  fur  coats 
or  silk  stockin's  or  no  thin'.  All  the  same,  I  got 
all  I  can  do  to  hold  me  face  straight  when  I  see 
these  li'F  owl- eyes  givin'  us  the  glad  look.  I'd 
oughter  stayed  back  in  Remate  de  Males,  where 
a  feller  can  wink  at  a  woman  without  gittin' 
all  his  pardners  massacreed." 

"Perhaps  it  would  not  be  fatal,  now  that  we 
are  guests  of  the  chief.  But  it  is  best  to  take  no 
chances." 

"Safety  first.  That's  us.  Grin  at  one  of  'em 
and  another  might  git  sore  because  she  missed 
out,  and  first  thing  ye  know  ye've  started  some- 
thin'  without  meanin'  to.  Let's  look  at  some- 
thin'  harmless — one  o'  them  poisoned  spears,  f'r 
instance." 

At  that  moment  Monitaya  and  Lourengo  both 
arose,  the  chief  to  inspect  in  person  the  progress 
of  the  arrangements  for  the  feast,  the  bush- 
man  to  return  to  his  companions  with  additional 
news. 

"Monitaya  tells  me,"  he  said,  "that  his  people 
have  lost  girls  hi  other  ways  than  by  the  mur 
derous  attacks  of  the  gunmen.  A  number  of 


204  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

young  women  who  have  gone  into  the  bush  near 
their  malocas  to  get  urucu  and  genipapa,  which 
they  use  to  make  the  red  and  black  body  dyes, 
have  disappeared.  So  have  several  who  went 
to  the  creeks  for  their  daily  baths.  Warriors 
who  tried  to  trail  them  have  found  the  footprints 
of  a  few  men,  but  always  lost  them  at  water. 
The  girls  had  been  taken  away  in  canoes.  Even 
this  tribe  of  Monitaya,  which  never  has  been 
attacked  by  night  raiders  because  it  is  too  strong, 
has  not  been  safe  from  these  stealthy  woman 
stealings  by  daylight.  Three  girls  have  been 
taken  from  here  within  the  past  two  moons,  and 
others  have  disappeared  from  other  malocas." 

"Hm!  And  Schwandorf  hasn't  been  here  re 
cently,"  said  Knowlton. 

"No.  It  must  be  that  he  has  agents  who  work 
when  he  is  not  here,  or  else  this  is  done  without 
his  knowledge.  I  have  told  Monitaya  what  I 
know  of  Schwandorf,  and  he  agrees  that  the 
women  are  taken  as  slaves.  I  have  also  told  him 
that  when  we  return  down  the  river  we  shall  see 
that  Schwandorf  troubles  the  Mayorunas  no 
more." 

"Excellent,"  McKay  approved.  "Have  you 
asked  him  about  the  Raposa?" 

"Not  yet.  It  does  not  pay  to  hurry  business 
with  these  people.  After  the  feast  is  out  of  the 
way  I  will  talk  further  with  him." 

No  more  was  said  for  a  time.  The  five  lounged 
at  ease,  sniffing  the  savory  odors  arising  from  the 


FEVER  205 

v, 

reddish  clay  pots  and  pans  in  which  fruit,  fish,  or 
fowl  was  frying  in  tapir  lard,  or  meat  was  stewing. 
At  length  a  number  of  tall,  shapely  women,  ap 
parently  the  handsomest  of  their  sex  in  the  tribe, 
laid  a  number  of  small  mats  in  a  semicircle  on 
the  ground  before  the  chief,  and  placed  thereon  a 
steaming  array  of  edibles.  Furs  were  placed  out 
side  the  line  of  mats.  From  somewhere  appeared 
all  four  of  the  subchiefs,  accompanied  by  Yuara. 
Thereupon  Monitaya,  with  a  smiling  nod  to  his 
guests,  squatted  within  the  arc.  Forthwith  the 
visitors  advanced  in  a  body,  disposed  themselves 
comfortably  on  the  furs,  and  assailed  the  viands 
with  a  vigor  that  brought  a  delighted  grin  to 
the  face  of  their  barbaric  host. 

Fried  bananas,  tender  fish,  broiled  parrot  which 
was  not  so  tender,  a  thick  stew  of  somewhat 
odorous  meat  seasoned  with  tart-tasting  herbs, 
roast  wild  hog,  and  other  things  at  whose  identity 
the  whites  could  not  even  guess,  all  were  chewed 
and  washed  down  with  generous  draughts  of  a 
rather  sour  liquid  resembling  beer.  Remember 
ing  Louren<jo's  previous  warning,  each  man  took 
care  not  to  slight  any  portion  of  the  meal  or  to 
show  distaste  with  anything,  whether  it  pleased 
the  palate  or  not.  Throughout  the  feast  the  tall 
women  hovered  near,  bringing  fresh  supplies 
whenever  a  dearth  of  any  edible  appeared  to 
threaten.  And  when  at  last  the  feasters  were  full 
to  repletion  Monitaya  himself  designated  what 
he  considered  titbits  to  tempt  them  further. 


206  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"Gosh!  if  I  eat  any  more  I'll  bust,  and  I'm 
danged  if  I'll  bust  jest  to  satisfy  this  guy," 
asserted  Tim.  Wherewith  he  put  one  hand  under 
his  jaw  and  patted  his  stomach  with  the  other, 
signifying  that  he  was  filled  to  the  throat.  Pedro 
lifted  his  elbows,  dropped  his  jaw,  and  made 
motions  as  if  gasping  for  ah-.  The  chieftain 
grinned  widely.  The  grin  became  a  chuckling 
when  Tim,  after  a  vain  attempt  to  rise,  lay  back 
at  full  length  on  his  rug  and  begged  some  one  to 
make  a  cigarette. 

"Guess  I'll  have  to  follow  Tim's  example," 
confessed  Knowlton.  And  he  too  stretched  out. 
Pedro  and  Lourengo  also  sprawled  back.  McKay, 
after  glancing  around,  compromised  with  his 
dignity  by  leaning  on  one  elbow.  The  subchiefs 
and  Yuara,  with  slight  smiles,  relaxed  in  various 
postures.  Monitaya  alone  arose — not  without 
some  difficulty — and  got  into  his  hammock, 
where  he  beamed  down  at  them. 

"Suppose  this  is  a  compliment  to  the  chief," 
smiled  McKay.  "He  thinks  he  has  eaten  us 
helpless." 

"Speakin'  for  liT  old  Tun  Ryan,  that  ain't  no 
joke,  neither.  Lookit  all  the  girls  givin'  us  the 
laff.  Who  are  them  tall  ones  that's  been  rushin' 
the  grub?  Waitresses  or  somethin'?" 

" Those  are  the  chief's  wives,"  Lourengo  ex 
plained. 

"Huh?  Gosh!  he's  one  brave  guy,  that  feller! 
Two  —  four  —  six  —  eight  —  nine  of  'em!  Swell 


FEVER  207 

lookers,  too.     I  s'pose  he  has  his  pick  o'  the 
whole  crowd  here." 

"He  does  not  have  to  pick  them  Senhor  Tim. 
They  pick  him.  He  and  the  subchiefs  are  the 
only  ones  who  can  take  more  than  one  wife. 
When  a  girl  wishes  to  become  the  wife  of  the 
great  chief  or  of  a  subchief ,  she  works  for  months 
making  feather  dresses  and  necklaces  and  ham 
mocks,  and  when  these  are  done  she  gives  them 
all  to  him.  If  he  likes  her  well  enough  he  accepts 
the  gifts  and  allows  her  to  be  a  wife  to  him." 

"Yeah?  And  she's  flattered  to  death,  I  s'pose. 
Wisht  they'd  start  somethin'  like  that  up  home, 
or,  anyways,  fix  it  so's  a  feller  could  get  an  even 
break.  Way  it  is  now,  a  feller  blows  in  every 
dollar  he's  got,  and  then  when  he's  fixin'  to  git  the 
ring  the  girl  leaves  him  flat  for  some  other  guy 
that  'ain't  spent  his  dough  yet.  Yo-ho-hum! 
I'm  goin'  to  take  a  snooze  right  there  on  the 
table.  Wake  me  up,  somebody,  when  the  next 
mess  call  blows." 

And  with  no  further  ado  he  shut  his  eyes  and 
drowsed. 

His  companions  lolled  for  some  time,  smoking 
and  watching  the  family  life  of  the  ordinary 
members  of  the  tribe,  nodding  now  and  then  to 
some  friendly-looking  young  fellow,  but  ignoring 
the  mischievous  glances  of  the  girls.  Monitaya 
himself  lay  back  in  his  hammock  and  dozed. 
His  wives,  stepping  nonchalantly  among  the 
strangers,  cleared .  away  the  remnants  of  the 


208  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

feast  by  the  simple  process  of  eating  them.  Then 
they  carried  off  the  clay  vessels. 

For  another  hour  all  hands  rested.  Then 
Monitaya  sat  up,  stretched  his  big  arms,  looked 
casually  around  the  house  to  see  that  all  was  well, 
and  smiled  down  at  his  guests.  Lourengo,  rising 
to  a  squat,  began  a  new  conversation.  After  a 
while  he  turned  to  McKay. 

"The  Red  Bones  and  the  Mayorunas  are 
neither  friendly  nor  hostile  toward  each  other, 
and  there  is  little  communication  between  them," 
he  reported.  "From  those  malocas  to  the  town 
of  the  Red  Bones  is  a  journey  of  five  long  days,  so 
the  men  of  Monitaya  hardly  ever  go  there. 

"The  Raposa  whom  we  seek  is  known  to  the 
men  of  Monitaya,  but  he  never  has  come  here  to 
the  tribal  houses.  Hunters  from  this  place  have 
met  him  at  times  roving  the  wild  forests,  and 
some  of  the  younger  men  fear  him  as  the  bad 
spirit  of  the  jungle.  The  Mayorunas  believe  in 
two  spirits  or  demons,  one  good  and  one  bad,  and 
the  bad  one  is  said  to  roam  the  wilderness,  seeking 
lone  wanderers,  whom  he  kills  and  eats;  the  people 
sometimes  hear  this  demon  howling  at  night  hi 
the  dark  of  the  moon.  So  the  young  men  have 
thought  the  Raposa  might  be  this  demon  and 
have  avoided  him — it  would  do  no  good  to  try  to 
kill  a  demon,  and  it  would  only  make  their  own 
deaths  more  sure  and  horrible. 

"But  the  older  men  do  not  believe  this.  They 
say  the  wild  man  is  of  the  Red  Bone  people,  and 


FEVER  209 

that  the  reason  why  his  bones  are  marked  in  red 
on  his  living  body  is  that  he  is  neither  alive  nor 
dead.  If  he  were  dead  his  body  would  be  thrown 
into  the  water  and  left  there  until  his  bones  were 
stripped  by  those  cannibal  fish,  the  piranhas,  and 
then  the  bones  would  be  dyed  red  and  hung  up  in 
his  hut,  as  is  the  custom  among  those  people.  If 
he  were  alive  like  other  men  he  would  not  have 
those  marks  on  his  body,  but  would  wear  only 
the  tribal  face  paint.  The  bone  paint  on  him  is  a 
sign  to  all  the  Ossos  Vermelhos  that  he  is  alive, 
but  dead,  and  is  not  to  be  treated  like  other  men." 

"Crazy!"  exclaimed  Knowlton. 

"Yes.  I  think  that  is  it.  His  body  lives,  but 
his  mind  is  dead.  Death  in  life." 

"Has  he  been  seen  lately?" 

The  Brazilian  repeated  the  question  in  the 
Indian  tongue.  The  chief  looked  toward  a  cer 
tain  hammock  some  distance  off,  called  a  name, 
raised  an  imperative  hand.  A  slender  savage 
came  forward.  To  him  the  chief  spoke,  then  to 
Lourengo,  who,  as  usual,  relayed  his  information. 

"This  young  hunter  saw  him  six  days  ago  while 
following  a  wild-hog  trail  far  out  in  the  bush 
toward  the  Red  Bone  region.  He  came  on  the 
fresh  track  of  a  man  who  was  following  the  same 
hogs,  and  later  he  caught  up  with  that  man.  It 
was  the  red-boned  wild  man,  and  the  wild  man 
was  very  lame,  having  a  hurt  foot.  They  stood 
and  looked  at  each  other,  and  then  the  wild  man 
walked  away,  watching  him  closely  and  ready  to 


210  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

shoot  with  his  bow.  After  he  disappeared  in  the 
forest  this  hunter  heard  a  long,  shrill  laugh  and 
words  that  sounded  like  'Podavi.'  " 

"Podavi  —  Poor  Davy!"  ejaculated  Knowl- 
ton.  "That's  he,  sure  enough!  Then  he's  near 
his  own  town  now — he  won't  go  far  with  a  bad 
foot.  We'd  better  move  as  soon  as  we  can.  Ask 
about  an  escort.'* 

Once  more  the  bushman  conversed  with  Moni- 
taya.  The  ruler's  smile  disappeared.  For  some 
time  he  sat  gazing  out  over  the  heads  of  all, 
evidently  weighing  matters  in  his  mind.  When 
he  responded,  however,  it  was  without  hesitation. 

"There  is  neither  friendliness  nor  enmity 
between  the  two  peoples,  as  has  been  said," 
Lourengo  stated.  "Our  business  among  the  Red 
Bones  is  our  own  affair,  not  that  of  Monitaya, 
and  Monitaya  will  make  no  requests  for  us.  But 
in  order  that  we  may  go  safely  and  return  without 
harm  he  will  send  with  us  twenty  of  his  best  men. 
These  men  will  have  orders  to  protect  us  at  all 
tunes,  unless  fighting  is  caused  by  our  making  a 
needless  attack  on  the  Red  Bones.  Injthat  case 
the  Mayorunas  will  do  nothing  to  help  us.  They 
will  only  defend  themselves." 

"Fair  enough!"  nodded  McKay.  "Tell  him 
we'll  start  no  fight.  If  any  trouble  comes  it 
will  be  from  the  other  fellows.  We'll  leave  here 
to-morrow  morning." 

Lourengo  translated  the  promise  into  Mayo- 
runa.  But  the  chief  seemed  not  to  hear.  His 


FEVER  211 

eyes  had  narrowed  and  were  fixed  on  the  face  of 
Tim,  who  still  lay  on  his  back  and  was  giving  no 
attention  to  what  went  on.  Following  his  look, 
the  bushman  gazed  critically  at  the  red-haired 
man. 

Tim's  florid  face  had  paled.  His  mouth  was 
drawn  and  his  eyes  stared  straight  up,  wide  and 
glassy.  Slowly  he  rolled  his  head  from  side  to 
side. 

"Gee!  Cap,"  he  whispered,  hoarsely,  "I  et 
too  much.  My  head  aches  so  I'm  fair  blind,  and 
I'm  burnin'  up.  Gimme  some  water." 

With  a  swift,  simultaneous  movement  McKay 
and  Knowlton  put  their  hands  on  his  forehead. 
Lourengo  and  Pedro  leaned  closer  and  peered 
into  his  face.  All  four  glanced  at  one  another. 
Pedro  nodded.  His  lips  silently  formed  one  dread 
word: 

"Fever!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII.    FRUIT  OF  THE  TRAP 

HEAVY  hypodermic  doses  of  quinine,  aided 
by  Tim's  rugged  constitution  and  the 
fact  that  this  was  his  first  attack  of  the 
ravaging  sickness  of  the  swamp  lands,  pulled 
him  back  to  safety  within  the  next  two  days. 
To  safety,  but  not  to  strength.  Despite  his 
stout-hearted  assertions  that  he  was  ready  to 
hit  the  trail  and  "walk  the  legs  off  the  whole 
danged  outfit,"  he  was  obviously  in  no  con 
dition  to  stand  up  under  the  grueling  pack 
work  that  lay  ahead.  Wherefore,  McKay,  after 
consultation  with  the  others  of  the  party,  and, 
through  Lourengo,  with  Monitaya,  gave  him 
inflexible  orders. 

"You'll  stay  here.  Stick  in  your  hammock 
until  you're  in  fighting  trim.  Then  watch  your 
self.  Don't  pull  any  bonehead  plays  that  '11  get 
these  people  down  on  you.  Take  quinine  daily 
according  to  Knowlton's  directions — he's  written 
them  on  the  box.  If  we're  not  back  in  a  fort 
night  Monitaya  will  send  men  to  find  out  why. 
If  they  find  that  we're — not  coming  back — you 
will  be  guided  to  the  river,  where  you  can  get 
down  to  the  Nunes  place." 

"But,  Cap—" 

"No  argument!" 

"But  listen  here,  for  the  love  o'  Mike!  I  ain't 


FRUIT  OF  THE  TRAP  213 

no  old  woman!  I  can  stand  the  gaff!  I'm  goin' 
with  the  gang!" 

"You  hear  the  orders!"  McKay  snapped,  with 
assumed  severity.  "Think  we  want  to  be 
bothered  with  having  you  go  sick  again?  You're 
out  of  shape  and  we've  no  room  for  lame  ducks. 
You'll  stay  here!" 

Tun  tried  another  tack. 

"Aw,  but  listen!  Ye  ain't  goin'  to  desert  a 
comrade  amongst  a  lot  o'  man  eaters — right  hi 
the  place  where  I  got  sick,  too.  Soon's  I  git  away 
from  here  I'll  be  all  right — " 

"That  stuff's  no  good,"  the  captain  contra 
dicted,  with  a  tight  smile.  "You  didn't  get  fever 
here.  It's  been  in  your  system  for  days.  You 
got  it  back  on  the  river.  These  people  don't 
have  it,  or  any  other  kind  of  sickness.  I've 
looked  around  and  I  know.  As  for  the  man 
eaters,  they're  mighty  decent  folks  toward 
friends.  We're  friends.  You'll  be  under  the 
personal  protection  of  Monitaya,  and  his  word 
is  good  as  gold.  It's  all  arranged,  and  you're 
safer  here  than  you  would  be  in  New  York." 

In  his  heart  the  stubborn  veteran  knew  McKay 
was  right,  but,  like  any  other  good  soldier  ordered 
to  remain  out  of  action,  he  grumbled  and  growled 
regardless.  To  which  the  ex-officers  paid  about 
as  much  attention  as  officers  usually  do.  They 
went  ahead  with  their  own  preparations. 

"Be  of  good  heart,  Senhor  Tim,"  Pedro  com 
forted,  mischievously.  "You  will  not  lack  for 

15 


214  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

company.  The  chief  has  appointed  two  girls  to 
wait  upon  you  at  all  times." 

"  Huh?  Them  two  tall  ones  that's  been  hangin' 
round  and  fetchin'  things?  Are  they  mine?  " 

"Yes.  They  are  quite  handsome  in  their  way, 
and  strong  enough  to  help  you  about  if  your  legs 
remain  weak.  In  that  case  you  will  probably  be 
allowed  to  put  your  arms  around  them  for  sup 
port.  I  almost  wish  I  could  get  fever,  too." 

Tim's  voice  remained  a  growl,  but  his  face  did 
not  look  so  doleful  as  before. 

"Grrrumph!  I  always  seem  to  draw  big  fe 
males,  and  I  don't  like  'em.  Gimme  somethin' 
cute  like  them  liT  frog  dolls  in  Paree — sort  o'  pee- 
teet  and  chick.  Still,  a  feller's  got  to  do  the  best 
he  can.  Mebbe  I'll  live  till  you  guys  git  back." 

With  which  he  availed  himself  of  the  preroga 
tive  of  a  sick  man  and  grinned  openly  at  the  two 
comely  young  women  who  stood  near  at  hand, 
awaiting  any  demand  for  services.  They  were 
not  at  all  backward  in  reciprocating,  and,  despite 
the  tribal  paint  and  their  labial  ornaments,  the 
smiles  softening  their  faces  made  them  not  half 
bad  to  look  upon. 

"  'O  death,  where  is  thy  sting?' :'  laughed 
Knowlton.  "Be  careful  not  to  strain  your  heart 
while  we're  away,  Tim." 

"Don't  worry.  It's  a  tough  old  heart — been 
kicked  round  so  much  it's  growed  a  shell  like  a 
turtle.  Besides,  I  seen  wild  women  before  I  ever 
come  to  the  jungle." 


FRUIT  OF  THE  TRAP  215 

Notwithstanding  his  apparent  resignation, 
however,  Tim  erupted  once  more  when  his  com 
rades  shouldered  their  packs,  picked  up  their 
guns,  and  spoke  their  thanks  and  good-by  to 
Monitaya.  He  arose  on  shaky  legs  and  des 
perately  offered  to  prove  his  fitness  by  a  bare 
handed  six-round  bout  with  his  commanding 
officer.  When  McKay,  with  sympathetic  eyes 
but  gruff  tones,  peremptorily  squelched  him  he 
insisted  on  at  least  going  to  the  door  to  watch  his 
comrades  start  the  journey  from  which  they 
might  or  might  not  return.  Nor  did  he  take 
advantage  of  his  chance  to  hug  the  girls  on  the 
way. 

With  one  arm  slung  over  the  shoulders  of  a  wiry 
young  warrior  who  grinned  proudly  at  the  honor 
of  being  selected  to  help  a  guest  of  the  great  chief, 
he  followed  the  departing  column  out  into  the 
sunshine,  where  the  entire  tribe  was  assembled. 
And  when  the  stalwart  band  had  filed  into  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  and  vanished  he  stood  for  a 
tune  unseeing  and  gulping  at  something  hi  his 
throat. 

Straight  away  along  a  vague  path  beginning 
at  the  rear  of  the  malocas  marched  the  twenty- 
four,  the  two  northerners  bending  under  the 
weight  of  their  packs,  the  pair  of  Brazilians 
sweeping  the  jungle  with  practiced  eyes,  the  score 
of  Mayorunas  striding  velvet  footed,  resplendent 
in  brilliant  new  paint  and  headdresses,  armed 
with  the  most  powerful  weapons  of  their  tribe, 


216  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

) 

and  loftily  conscious  of  the  fact  that  they  were 
chosen  as  Monitaya's  best.  Savage  and  civilized, 
each  man  was  fit,  alert,  formidable.  Nowhere 
in  the  loosely  joined  chain  was  a  weak  link. 

Before  the  departure  the  Americans  had  been 
at  some  trouble  to  rid  themselves  of  Yuara,  who, 
with  his  men,  had  tarried  at  the  Monitaya 
malocas  during  Tim's  sickness.  While  Knowlton 
was  giving  his  ripped  arm  a  final  dressing  he  had 
calmly  announced  his  intention  of  joining  the 
expedition  into  the  Red  Bone  country,  and  it  had 
taken  some  skillful  argument  by  Louren^o  to 
dissuade  him  without  arousing  his  anger.  All 
four  of  the  adventurers  would  gladly  have  taken 
him  along  had  he  not  been  hampered  by  his 
injury,  but,  under  the  ruthless  rule  barring  all 
men  not  in  possession  of  all  their  strength,  he 
had  to  be  left. 

Now,  as  on  the  previous  jungle  marches,  the 
way  was  led  by  two  of  the  tribesmen,  followed  by 
the  Brazilians  and  the  Americans,  after  whom 
the  main  body  of  the  escort  strode  in  column. 
The  leader  and  guide,  one  Tucu,  was  a  veteran 
hunter,  fighter,  and  bushranger,  who  had  been 
more  than  once  in  the  Red  Bone  region  and 
withal  possessed  the  cool  judgment  of  mature 
years  and  long  experience;  a  lean,  silent  man  who, 
though  not  a  subchief,  might  have  made  a  good 
one  if  given  the  opportunity.  With  him  Lourengo 
had  already  arranged  that  a  direct  course  should 
be  followed,  and  that  whenever  dense  under- 


FRUIT  OF  THE  TRAP  217 

growth  blockaded  the  way  the  machete  men 
should  take  the  lead. 

For  some  time  no  word  was  spoken.  The  path 
wound  on,  faintly  marked,  but  easy  enough  to 
follow  with  Tucu  picking  it  out.  It  was  not  one 
of  the  frequently  used  trails  of  the  Monitaya 
people,  but  a  mere  picada,  or  hunter's  track;  yet 
even  this  had  its  pitfalls  to  guard  the  tribal 
house.  Soon  after  leaving  the  clearing  Tucu 
turned  aside,  passed  between  trees  off  the  trail, 
went  directly  under  one  tree  whose  steep-slanting 
roots  stood  up  off  the  ground  like  great  down- 
pointing  fingers,  and  returned  to  the  path.  All 
followed  without  comment. 

A  considerable  distance  was  covered  before 
any  further  sign  of  the  presence  of  ambushed 
death  was  shown  by  the  savages.  Then  it  came 
with  tragic  suddenness. 

Tucu  grunted  suddenly,  and  in  one  instant 
shifted  his  gait  from  the  easy  swing  of  the  march 
to  the  prowl  of  a  hunting  animal.  Behind  him 
the  line  grew  tense.  The  click  of  rifle  hammers 
and  of  safeties  being  thrown  off  breech  bolts 
blended  with  the  faint  slither  of  arrows  being 
swiftly  drawn  from  quivers.  Eyes  searched  the 
bush,  spying  no  enemy. 

Two  more  steps,  and  Tucu  stopped,  head 
thrust  forward,  eyes  boring  into  something  on 
the  ground.  The  rest,  taking  care  not  to  touch 
one  another's  weapons,  crowded  around  and 
looked  down  at  the  huddled  form  of  a  man. 


218  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

A  matted  mass  of  black  hair,  a  neck  burned 
copper  brown  by  sun,  tattered  cotton  shirt  and 
trousers,  big,  bare  dirty  feet,  a  rusty  repeating 
rifle  of  heavy  caliber — these  were  what  they 
saw  first.  The  man  lay  straight,  his  face  in  the 
dirt,  his  hands  a  little  ahead  as  if  he  had  been 
crawling  forward  at  the  moment  of  death.  Tucu 
turned  him  on  his  back,  revealing  a  blanched 
yellow-brown  face  which  was  proof  positive 
of  his  race. 

"Peruvian,"  said  Pedro. 

"What  got  him?"  demanded  Knowlton.  "No 
wound  on  him." 

LourenQo  questioned  Tucu.  The  leader,  who 
evidently  knew  just  where  to  look,  tore  open 
the  thin  shirt  at  the  left  side  and  pointed  to  a  tiny 
discoloration  surrounding  a  red  dot  under  the 
ribs.  He  muttered  a  few  laconic  words. 

' '  A  bio wgun  trap, ' '  Lourenc.  o  explained.  ' '  The 
gun  is  set  a  little  way  beyond  here.  This  man, 
sneaking  along  the  path,  broke  the  little  cord 
which  shot  the  gun.  The  poisoned  dart  struck  in 
his  side.  He  must  have  pulled  out  the  dart,  but  he 
could  not  go  far  before  his  legs  became  paralyzed, 
and  he  fell.  Then,  still  trying  to  crawl,  he  died." 

Pedro  picked  up  the  dead  man's  gun  and 
worked  the  lever.  The  weapon  was  fully  loaded 
and  showed  no  sign  of  recent  firing.  Pedro  coolly 
pumped  it  empty,  gathered  up  the  blunt  .44 
cartridges,  and  pocketed  them  for  his  own  use. 

Tucu    watched    the   proceeding    hi    satirical 


FRUIT  OF  THE  TRAP  219 

approval.  Then,  leaving  the  body  where  it  lay, 
he  went  stooping  along  the  path  ahead,  his  keen 
eyes  searching  the  undergrowth.  In  a  few  min 
utes  he  returned  with  the  blood-stained  dart 
which,  as  Lourengo  had  guessed,  the  stricken 
prowler  had  pulled  from  his  flesh  and  dropped. 
This  he  passed  to  a  blowgun  man.  The  latter 
carefully  opened  his  poison  pouch,  redipped  the 
point  of  the  dart,  held  it  a  moment  to  dry  in  a 
shaft  of  sunlight,  and  slipped  it  into  his  dart 
case  among  a  score  of  unused  missiles. 

"No  waste  of  ammunition  here,"  was  McKay's 
dry  comment.  "What  happens  to  this  corpse 
now?" 

Through  Lourengo's  mouth  Tucu  answered. 

"It  will  be  left  here  until  police  warriors  come 
from  the  malocas.  Certain  men  travel  the 
paths  daily  to  inspect  the  traps.  When  they 
find  this  man  they  will  cut  off  his  hands  and  feet 
with  their  wooden  knives  and  throw  the  rest 
aside  to  be  eaten  by  the  animals.  He  has  not 
been  dead  long  or  he  would  have  been  devoured 
by  some  wild  thing  before  we  came.  The  trail 
travelers  will  set  the  trap  again  and  take  the 
hands  and  feet  to  the  malocas,  where  they  will 
be  washed,  cooked,  and  eaten." 

The  faces  of  the  Americans  contracted  slightly. 
A  simultaneous  thought  made  them  flash  startled 
glances  at  each  other. 

"Tun — '  Knowlton  said,  and  paused.  Lou- 
rengo  smiled. 


220  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"No,  Senhor  Tim  will  not  be  expected  to  eat 
man  meat,"  he  assured  them.  "I  thought  of 
that  before  we  left — one  never  knows  when  these 
traps  will  yield  human  flesh.  So,  without  letting 
Monitaya  know  why  I  spoke,  I  told  him  you 
North  Americans  believed  the  flesh  of  an  enemy 
to  be  poisonous,  and  that  you  would  not  eat 
it  on  that  account.  Monitaya  will  remember 
that." 

"By  George!  you  have  a  head  on  your  shoul 
ders,  old  scout!  I  was  worried  for  a  minute. 
If  they  offered  Tim  a  broiled  foot  or  a  stewed 
hand  he'd  go  for  his  gun." 

Briefly  Tucu  spoke.  The  Mayorunas  sepa 
rated  and  went  into  the  forest,  seeking  any  sign 
of  other  enemies. 

"Queer  that  this  chap  should  come  here  alone 
— if  he  was  alone,"  added  Knowlton.  "Suppose 
he's  the  fellow  that's  been  swiping  stray  girls? 
Or  a  spy?" 

"Neither,  I  think,  senhor.  The  girls  were 
captured  by  more  than  one  man,  and  I  doubt 
if  this  one  had  been  here  before.  Probably  he 
was  one  of  those  lone  prowlers  of  the  bush 
whose  hand  is  against  every  man.  He  is  a  half- 
breed,  as  you  see,  and  came,  perhaps,  to  steal  a 
girl  for  himself.  The  jungle  is  well  rid  of  him." 

"Uh-huh.  Guess  you're  right.  Say,  I'd  like 
to  see  how  that  blowgun  trap  operates.  Can't 
understand  what  blows  the  dart  when  nobody  is 
here." 


FRUIT  OF  THE  TRAP  221 

"I  do  not  know,  either,  senhor.  Perhaps 
Tucu  will  show  us." 

The  savage  guide,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
pointed  along  the  trail  and  stalked  away,  the 
others  at  his  heels.  At  a  spot  some  fifteen  yards 
farther  on  he  turned  into  the  bush  at  the  right, 
walked  a  few  paces  away  from  the  path,  turned 
again  sharply  to  the  left,  advanced  once  more, 
and  halted.  Before  them,  not  easy  to  discern 
in  the  masking  brush,  even  though  they  were 
looking  for  it,  hung  the  long  barrel  of  the  blow- 
gun,  lashed  to  a  couple  of  small  trees  and  point 
ing  toward  the  path. 

Tucu  stepped  to  the  mouthpiece  of  the  slender 
tube  and  pointed  to  a  sapling,  just  behind  and 
in  line  with  it,  which  had  been  cut  off  about 
shoulder-high  from  the  ground.  From  the  tip 
of  this  thin  trunk  dangled  a  wide  strip  of  bark. 
The  savage,  having  indicated  this,  stood  as  if 
the  action  of  the  device  were  perfectly  clear. 

"Too  deep  for  me,"  admitted  McKay,  after  a 
puzzled  study  of  the  tube  and  the  trunk.  The 
others  nodded  agreement.  Lourenc,o  confessed 
to  the  Indian  the  blindness  of  all. 

Thereupon  Tucu  bent  the  sapling  far  over  and 
released  it.  As  it  sprang  erect  the  bark  strip 
slapped  the  end  of  the  gun.  Also,  the  watchers 
saw  something  hitherto  unnoticed — a  thin,  flex 
ible  vine  attached  to  the  top  of  the  thin  stump. 
Lourengo's  face  showed  understanding. 

"See,  comrades,  this  is  it:  The  little  tree  is 


222  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

bent  far  down  and  held  by  the  long  vine.  The 
vine  passes  around  a  low  branch,  then  up  over 
other  limbs,  and  out  across  the  path,  where  it 
is  fastened  to  a  root  near  the  ground.  A  man 
following  the  path  breaks  the  vine.  The  little 
tree  then  flies  up  and  the  bark  sheet  strikes  the 
wide  mouthpiece  of  the  gun.  The  air  forced  into 
that  mouthpiece  by  the  blow  of  the  bark  shoots 
the  little  dart.  The  dart  does  not  fly  as  hard  as 
if  blown  by  a  man,  but  it  goes  swiftly  enough  to 
pierce  the  skin  of  anything  except  a  tapir.  As 
soon  as  the  poison  is  in  the  blood  the  work  is 
done." 

"It  sure  is  done,"  Knowlton  echoed,  thinking 
of  the  short  distance  covered  by  the  dead  Peru 
vian  after  passing  this  spot.  "Mighty  ingenious 
apparatus.  These  people  are  no  fools,  I'll  say." 

"You  say  rightly,"  Pedro  muttered.  Turning, 
they  went  out  to  the  path,  looking  askance  at  the 
thin  death  tube  as  they  passed  along  it. 

The  scouting  Mayorunas  returned,  having 
found  nothing.  Tucu  resumed  his  place  at  the 
head  of  the  line.  Without  a  backward  glance  at 
the  body  sprawling  in  the  trail  at  the  rear,  the 
column  swung  into  its  usual  gait. 

The  Americans,  silent  before,  were  silent  again. 
They  had  looked  for  the  first  time  on  the  work 
of  the  Mayoruna  traps;  had  observed  the  cold 
blooded  way  in  which  the  Indians  handled  the 
still  form  on  the  ground;  had  visualized  the  forth 
coming  mutilation  of  that  body  and  the  resultant 


FRUIT  OF  THE  TRAP  223 

cannibal  rites.  More  vividly  than  ever  before 
they  realized  that  these  men  and  Monitaya  him 
self  were  relentless  creatures  of  the  jungle,  and 
that,  despite  the  present  existent  friendliness, 
there  yawned  between  them  and  their  barbarous 
allies  an  impassable  gulf. 

For  the  moment  the  jungle  itself  seemed  a 
poisonous  green  abyss  of  creeping,  crawling, 
sneaking  death.  And  though  they  had  faced 
death  too  often  in  another  land  to  fear  it  in  any 
form,  though  they  marched  on  with  unwavering 
step,  their  eyes  were  somber  as  in  their  hearts 
echoed  the  last  appeal  of  the  man  they  had  left 
behind  them: 

"Ye  ain't  goin'  to  desert  a  comrade  amongst  a 
lot  o'  man  eaters — " 


CHAPTER  XIX.    THE  RED  BONES 

FOUR  days  the  expedition  tramped  steadily 
onward  through  the  rugged  labyrinthine 
hills.  Four  nights  its  members  slept  in 
utter  exhaustion.  Neither  by  day  nor  by  night 
was  any  sign  of  the  Raposa  seen,  nor  of  any  other 
human  being. 

So  tired  from  the  constant  struggle  did  the 
Americans  become  that  their  jaded  brains  began 
to  picture  the  mysterious  wild  man  as  a  mere 
legendary  creature,  which  they  never  would  find 
even  though  they  searched  the  inscrutable  forests 
until  the  end  of  tune.  Yet  when,  on  the  fifth 
day,  Tucu  informed  them  that  they  now  were 
nearing  the  principal  settlement  of  the  Red 
Bones,  the  announcement  cheered  them  as  if  they 
were  about  to  enter  a  civilized  city  and  there  meet 
David  Rand  safe  and  sane. 

Not  that  any  chance  of  striking  his  trail  had 
been  neglected  in  the  meantime.  It  was  thor 
oughly  understood  that  if  he  were  met  any 
where  he  was  to  be  made  prisoner,  and  that 
thereafter  the  back  trail  should  be  taken.  Lou- 
rengo  had  impressed  on  Tucu  the  fact  that  the 
whole  journey  had  for  its  object  the  finding  of  the 
wild  man,  and  that  he  must  not  be  killed  if  found. 
Since  the  Indians  were  not  in  the  habit  of  hunt 
ing  so  assiduously  anyone  but  a  bitterly  hated 


THE  RED  BONES  225 

foe,  it  is  quite  possible  that  they  misunderstood 
the  spirit  of  the  quest  and  believed  the  "  dead- 
alive"  prowler  would,  if  captured,  undergo  some 
extremely  unpleasant  treatment  at  the  hands  of 
the  white  men.  But  so  long  as  it  was  made  clear 
that  the  Raposa  must  be  caught  alive,  if  caught 
at  all,  Lourengo  did  not  trouble  about  what  the 
Mayorunas  might  surmise. 

Now,  as  the  end  of  the  long,  pathless  trail  ap 
proached,  arose  a  question  of  which  McKay  had 
previously  thought  but  had  not  spoken — how  he 
was  to  converse  with  the  Red  Bone  chief.  Lou- 
rengo  asked  Tucu  whether  the  Red  Bones  spoke 
the  Mayoruna  tongue.  Tucu  replied  that  they 
did  not.  He  added,  however,  that  the  languages 
were  not  so  dissimilar  as  to  prevent  some  sort  of 
understanding  being  reached  between  members 
of  the  two  tribes.  The  veteran  bushman  nodded 
carelessly. 

"When  the  tongue  fails,  Capitao,  the  hands 
still  can  talk,"  he  said.  "It  takes  more  time  and 
work,  that  is  all.  Ah,  here  is  a  path!" 

It  was  so.  For  the  first  time  since  leaving  the 
Monitaya  region  a  path  lay  under  their  feet. 
And  for  the  first  tune  Tucu  and  his  fellow  Mayo 
runas,  glancing  along  that  fault  track,  showed 
hesitation. 

"Why  the  delay?"  snapped  McKay. 

"They  suspect  traps.  I  will  go  ahead  and  feel 
out  the  way.  I  have  done  it  before  on  other 
paths." 


226  THE  PATHLESS  TEAIL 

After  a  few  words  to  Tucu,  Lourengo  cut  a  long, 
slim  pole.  With  this  in  hand  he  preceded  the 
column,  walking  slowly,  pausing  sometimes, 
continually  prodding  the  path,  studying  it  with 
unswerving  gaze  as  he  progressed.  The  thin  but 
rigid  feeler,  strong  enough  to  tip  the  cover  of  any 
pit  or  to  spring  any  concealed  bow  or  blowgun, 
was  at  least  ten  feet  long,  and  between  the  scout 
and  the  head  of  the  line  Tucu  preserved  another 
ten-foot  interval.  Progress  was  necessarily  slow, 
but  it  was  sure. 

In  this  fashion  they  advanced  perhaps  half  a 
mile.  Not  once  did  they  have  to  leave  the  path, 
but  Lourengo's  caution  did  not  diminish.  Rather, 
it  increased  as  they  neared  the  Red  Bone  town. 
At  length  another  path  joined  the  one  on  which 
they  were  traveling.  Here  Lourengo  paused  for 
minutes,  inspecting  with  extreme  care  the 
ground  and  the  bush. 

Suddenly  he  cocked  his  head  as  if  listening. 
Then,  with  a  backward  motion  of  the  hand  to 
enjoin  silence,  he  faced  down  the  branch  path 
and  stood  calmly  waiting. 

To  those  behind  came  a  light  rustle  of  leaves 
and  a  scuffle  of  moving  feet;  a  sudden  cessation; 
then  Lourengo's  voice  speaking  to  some  one 
concealed  behind  the  intervening  undergrowth. 
His  tone  was  slow,  quiet,  easy — the  tone  which, 
even  if  the  words  were  not  understood,  would 
soothe  suspicious  and  abruptly  alarmed  minds. 
After  another  short  silence  he  resumed  talking, 


THE  RED  BONES  227 

pointing  carelessly  to  the  place  behind  him  where 
stood  the  silent  file  of  Mayorunas.  A  guttural 
voice  replied.  A  head  peered  cautiously  from 
the  edge  of  the  bush,  stared  fixedly  at  Tucu,  and 
withdrew.  The  voice  sounded  again.  Imme 
diately  three  Indians  stepped  into  view,  poised 
for  action.  Another  interval  of  staring,  and  they 
relaxed. 

"Come  forward,  comrades,"  said  Lourengo. 
They  came,  halting  again  at  the  junction  of  the 
trails.  Tucu  spoke  to  one  of  the  newcomers,  who 
scowled  as  if  only  partly  understanding,  but 
grunted  some  sort  of  answer.  Those  behind  the 
Mayoruna  leader  craned  their  necks  and  scanned 
the  Red  Bone  men,  who  continued  to  eye  with 
evident  misgiving  the  tall-bonneted  cannibals 
and  the  broad-hatted  pah-  of  whites. 

Man  for  man,  these  Red  Bones  were  in  every 
way  inferior  to  the  emissaries  of  Monitaya.  Their 
bodies  were  more  gaunt,  their  skins  more  coppery, 
their  foreheads  lower,  and  their  expressions 
much  less  intelligent.  Furthermore,  they  wore 
not  even  the  bark-cloth  clouts  which  formed 
the  sole .  body  covering  of  the  Mayorunas — they 
were  totally  naked.  The  one  point  of  similarity 
between  the  two  tribes  was  that  the  faces  of  the 
Red  Bone  men  were  streaked  with  red  dye.  But 
the  facial  design  was  much  different:  two  short 
transverse  stripes  on  the  forehead,  and  three  lines 
on  each  cheek,  running  from  the  eyes,  the  end  of 
the  nose,  and  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  straight 


228  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

back  to  the  ears.  Studying  those  visages, 
Knowlton  and  McKay  recalled  Schwandorf's 
statement  that  these  people  not  only  ate  human 
flesh,  but  tortured  prisoners  of  war.  It  was  easy 
to  believe  that  he  had  told  truth. 

McKay,  standing  behind  Pedro,  shifted  his 
position  a  bit.  At  once  the  eyes  of  the  three 
Red  Bones  widened  and  riveted  on  his  face. 
Heretofore  they  had  seen  only  his  hat  and  eyes, 
the  rest  being  hidden  from  them  by  Pedro's 
neck  and  an  intervening  palm  tip.  Now  that 
they  saw  his  black-bearded  jaw,  they  started 
slightly  and  peered  intently  at  him. 

"  I  think,  Capitao,  you  would  do  well  to  shave," 
Pedro  suggested,  with  a  smile. 

"'Fraid  so,"  the  captain  granted.  "Black 
beards  evidently  are  de  trop  in  the  jungle  social 
set  at  present." 

But  then  one  of  the  Red  Bone  men  came  for 
ward,  still  squintng  narrowly,  and  his  expression 
was  not  hostile.  In  fact,  it  was  more  friendly 
than  it  had  yet  been.  After  a  closer  scrutiny, 
however,  his  face  turned  blank.  Slowly  he 
stepped  back  and  muttered  something  to  his 
companions. 

At  this  Pedro's  eyes  narrowed  speculatively. 
But  his  expression  did  not  change,  and  he  said 
nothing. 

A  lengthy  conference  took  place  between  Lou- 
rengo  and  Tucu  on  the  one  hand  and  the  three 
Red  Bone  tribesmen  on  the  other;  a  difficult 


THE  RED  BONES  229 

*s  ^ 

talk  in  which  words  and  sign  language  both  were 
used  and  frequently  repeated.  Eventually  an 
understanding  was  reached.  The  three  stepped 
back,  picked  up  some  small  game  which  they 
had  dropped  on  beholding  Lourengo,  returned, 
and  led  the  way  along  the  path.  Lourengo  cast 
aside  his  poke  stick  and  resumed  his  usual  place 
hi  the  column.  The  whole  line  moved  ahead  at 
a  much  smarter  gait  than  before. 

"Note — this  path  is  not  mined,",  thought 
Knowlton. 

This  proved  true.  Moreover,  the  way  now 
was  more  broad  and  firm,  so  that  travel  on  it 
was  much  easier.  After  twenty  minutes  of 
rapid  tramping  it  debouched  abruptly  into  a 
cleared  space.  Here  all  halted. 

Before  them  lay  a  town  of  small,  low  huts, 
crowded  closely  together  in  two  parallel  rows 
which  curved  together  at  one  end.  The  other 
end  lay  open,  giving  access  to  a  sizable  creek 
whereon  floated  canoes.  At  the  water's  edge, 
along  the  crude  street  studded  with  charred 
stumps,  and  among  the  damp-looking  huts 
moved  naked  figures  of  men  and  women  occupied 
with  various  sluggish  activities.  Some  of  the 
men  already  had  spied  the  invading  party  and 
were  standing  at  gaze. 

"Comrades,  we  have  reached  the  end  of  our 
trail,"  said  Lourengo,  running  a  cool  eye  over  the 
place.  "Now  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  find  your 
Raposa  and  get  him  and  ourselves  away  alive." 

16 


230  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"That's  all,"  Knowlton  echoed,  unsmiling. 
"The  reception  committee  is  forming  now." 
And  with  the  words  he  unbuttoned  his  holster. 

A  shrill  yell  had  run  along  the  double  line  of 
houses,  and  out  into  the  stumpy  street  now 
swarmed  men  armed  with  hastily  seized  weapons. 
Hands  pointed,  confused  exclamations  sounded, 
and  a  compact  detachment  of  warriors  came 
jogging  toward  the  newcomers.  The  three 
guides  drew  away  from  the  Mayorunas.  The 
latter  promptly  fitted  arrows  to  their  bows, 
inserted  darts  in  their  blowguns,  lifted  spears  or 
clubs,  and  with  eyes  glittering  awaited  whatever 
might  befall. 

A  couple  of  rods  away  the  Red  Bones  halted, 
bows  ready.  A  hatchet-faced  savage  who  seemed 
to  be  in  command  rasped  something  at  the 
three  hunters,  who  quickened  their  pace  toward 
him.  Tucu  strode  out  four  paces  beyond  his 
own  men  and  stopped.  Then  both  parties 
waited  while  the  hunters  reported  what  they 
knew  to  the  hatchet-face. 

"What  did  you  tell  them,  LourenQo?"  asked 
McKay. 

"That  we  came  on  a  friendly  visit  to  the 
chief,  for  whom  we  had  important  words." 

"Nothing  of  the  Raposa?" 

"No.  They  wasted  much  time  arguing  that 
we  must  tell  them  all  our  business  and  let 
them  inform  the  chief,  while  we  were  to  stay 
back  on  the  path  until  permitted  to  enter  the 


THE  RED  BONES  231 

town.  We  told  them  our  talk  was  for  the  chief 
alone,  and  that  we  should  come  here  whether 
they  liked  it  or  not.  So,  having  no  choice,  they 
led  us  in." 

McKay  made  no  comment.  None  was  nec 
essary.  Furthermore,  his  steady  eyes  had  caught 
a  simultaneous  head  movement  of  the  Red 
Bones — a  peering  movement,  as  if  all  were  seek 
ing  some  one  man  among  the  new  arrivals.  Pedro 
observed  this.  He  spoke  softly  to  Lourengo. 

"Lourengo,  tell  Tucu  to  say  to  the  Red  Bones 
that  we  come  led  by  a  black-bearded  white 
man;  that  this  blackboard  comes  from  the  far- 
off  country  where  all  men  wear  black  beards; 
that  the  blackboard  will  speak  with  the  chief 
only." 

The  Americans  looked  queerly  at  the  young 
Brazilian,  as  did  Lourengo  himself.  But  with 
out  question  Lourengo  obeyed.  Calling  to  Tucu, 
he  gave  the  message.  Tucu  moved  his  head 
slightly,  but  gave  no  other  sign  of  having  heard. 

"Now,  Capitao,  step  forward  a  little  and  show 
yourself  more  clearly,"  prompted  Pedro. 

With  another  puzzled  glance  McKay  did  so. 
He  saw  that  the  brown  eyes  of  the  younger  man 
held  a  dancing  gleam,  but  he  could  not  read  the 
thought  behind  those  eyes.  Yet  he  noticed  that 
as  soon  as  he  stepped  out  the  Red  Bones  all 
focused  their  gaze  on  him.  More  than  that,  the 
spokesman  of  the  three  hunters  pointed  at  him 
and  said  something  to  the  sharp-featured  leader. 


232  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

Now  that  leader  came  forward  alone.  Six 
feet  from  Tucu  he  halted  again  and  talked  in  a 
growling  tone.  The  Mayoruna  leader,  cool  and 
dignified,  made  answer.  After  a  somewhat  pro 
tracted  exchange  Tucu  turned  his  head  and  mo 
tioned  to  Lourengo,  who  went  forward,  listened, 
replied  shortly,  and  came  back.  Meanwhile 
the  first  detachment  of  Red  Bones  had  been 
strongly  reinforced  by  others  who  had  come  up 
singly  or  in  small  parties.  Now  the  expedition 
was  outnumbered  at  least  four  to  one  by  hard- 
faced,  brute-mouthed,  naked  men  ready,  if  not 
eager,  for  trouble. 

"The  Red  Bone  says  we  shall  see  the  chief," 
Lourengo  stated.  "At  first  he  said  only  you, 
Capitao,  should  go  to  him.  Then  he  insisted 
that  we  all  lay  down  our  arms.  Tucu  has  told 
him  we  lay  down  our  arms  for  no  man  or  men£ 
that  we  come  in  peace — otherwise  there  would 
be  many  more  of  us;  that  we  leave  hi  peace 
unless  the  Red  Bones  themselves  bring  on  a 
fight.  In  that  case,  though  we  are  few,  there 
lies  behind  us  the  power  of  Monitaya,  and 
behind  Monitaya  the  power  of  the  Mayoruna 
chiefs,  all  strong  enough  to  wipe  the  Red  Bone 
nation  off  the  face  of  the  ground." 

"Strong  stuff,  that,"  said  Knowlton. 

"Strong,  yes.  But  no  stronger  than  is  needed 
to  impress  these  people.  Tucu  intends  to  pre 
vent  trouble  if  he  can;  and  often  the  best  way  to 
prevent  trouble  is  to  make  the  other  man  realize 


THE  RED  BONES  233 

what  may  happen  to  him  if  he  starts  it.  Also 
he  has  his  orders  from  Monitaya  to  stay  with  us 
at  all  times,  and  he  will  follow  that  order  even 
if  you,  Capitao,  try  to  change  it.  Now  we  go 
together  to  the  chief." 

He  nodded  to  Tucu,  who  grunted  to  the  Red 
Bone  leader.  The  hatchet-face  in  turn  shouted 
something  to  the  men  behind.  Slowly  they 
drew  apart  into  two  groups. 

"You  are  the  leader,  Capitao,"  suggested 
Lourengo.  Promptly  McKay  marched  forward, 
head  up,  eyes  front,  face  bleak.  The  rest  fol 
lowed,  Tucu  falling  in  behind  McKay  when  the 
captain  passed  him.  Preceded  by  the  Red  Bone 
spokesman,  the  line  advanced  between  the  two 
bodies  of  copper-skins  and  swung  along  the 
evil-smelling  avenue  to  its  upper  end. 

There,  hi  the  very  center  of  the  loop  joining 
the  two  rows  of  huts,  was  a  house  twice  as  big 
as  any  other.  From  its  doorway  the  inhabitant 
of  that  house  could  watch  the  whole  life  of  the 
Red  Bone  town.  Obviously  it  was  the  home  of 
the  chief.  At  its  door  a  pair  of  warriors  stood 
guard,  but  of  the  ruler  himself  there  was  no  sign. 

Ten  paces  from  it  the  thin-featured  leader 
stopped  and  motioned  to  McKay  to  halt.  As 
the  captain  and  the  line  behind  him  did  so  he 
stalked  onward,  passed  through  the  doorway, 
and  faded  from  sight  in  the  dimness  beyond. 
With  one  accord  the  members  of  the  visiting 
party  looked  around  them. 


234  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

The  street  behind  now  was  filled  with  the  mass 
of  Red  Bone  warriors  who  had  trooped  after 
the  column.  All  exit  in  that  direction  was 
blockaded.  But  the  ex-officers  noted  that  be 
tween  the  houses  were  spaces  each  wide  enough 
to  hold  a  couple  of  men,  and  in  an  undertone 
McKay  gave  defensive  instructions  to  Lourengo. 

"If  fighting  starts,  have  the  Mayorunas  take 
cover  along  these  houses  on  each  side.  We 
who  have  guns  will  use  the  chief's  house.  We 
can  sweep  the  whole  street  from  there.  You 
two  fellows  capture  the  chief  alive  if  possible. 
He'll  be  more  useful  as  a  hostage  than  as  a 
corpse." 

Pedro  beamed  approval  of  this  swiftly  formed 
plan.  Lourengo  muttered  to  Tucu,  who  in  turn 
passed  the  word  down  the  line.  Then  all  stood 
waiting. 

Presently  the  Red  Bone  man  came  out.  He 
shouted  a  name.  From  the  doorway  near  at 
hand,  where  he  had  been  standing  and  peering 
at  the  small  but  formidable  body  of  newcomers, 
an  old  man  now  stepped  forth  and  advanced, 
limping  a  little,  to  the  hatchet-face.  The  latter 
talked  briefly  to  him,  then  to  Tucu.  The 
Mayoruna  leader  pointed  to  Lourengo.  The 
old  man  spoke  to  the  Brazilian,  who  answered 
at  once.  Thereupon  the  wizened  old  fellow 
entered  the  chief's  house. 

"That  old  man  speaks  the  Mayoruna  tongue 
quite  well,  Capitao,"  said  Lourengo.  "He  says 


THE  RED  BONES  235 

you  and  I  shall  enter  and  talk  through  his  mouth 
with  the  chief.  All  others  remain  outside,  and 
we  must  leave  our  rifles  here." 

"All  right.  Glad  we  can  leave  Tucu  out  here 
to  control  these  fellows.  Here,  Merry."  He 
passed  his  rifle  to  Knowlton.  Pedro  took 
Lourengo's  gun.  With  packs  still  on  their  backs 
the  chosen  men  proceeded  to  the  doorway  and 
entered  the  house  where  waited  the  ruler  of  the 
Red  Bone  tribe. 

Behind  them  the  line  settled  into  easier  pos 
tures  of  waiting.  The  Red  Bones,  though  so 
compactly  ranged  as  to  cut  off  any  chance  of 
escape,  held  their  distance,  obviously  neither 
inclined  to  fraternize  nor  ready  to  precipitate 
conflict  by  crowding.  Thus,  while  keeping  their 
ears  open  for  any  sound  of  a  concerted  move 
ment  from  behind,  the  visitors  could  use  their 
eyes  to  inspect  the  huts  nearest  them. 

In  some  of  these,  women  stood  near  the  door 
ways,  staring  with  unwinking  absorption  at  the 
light-skinned,  athletic  men  outside  who  were 
so  much  better  to  look  upon  than  their  own 
mates.  The  Mayorunas  returned  the  stares 
with  the  brief  glances  of  men  accustomed  to 
noticing  everything  but  totally  uninterested — as 
well  they  might  be,  for  these  poorly  shaped, 
heavy-mouthed,  mud-skinned  females  were  not 
to  be  compared  with  their  own  women.  Knowl 
ton  and  Pedro,  too,  looked  them  over,  but  with 
the  same  expression  as  if  inspecting  a  family  of 


236  THE  PATHLESS   TRAIL 

lizards.  Then  they  glanced  into  other  huts  now 
empty  of  life,  and  in  a  couple  of  these  they  saw 
rigid  red-hued  objects  hanging  from  the  roofs. 

"The  red  bones  of  the  dead,  senhor,"  Pedro 
muttered,  and  his  blond  companion,  peering 
again  at  the  sinister  decorations,  nodded  without 
reply. 

Voices  came  to  them  from  the  chief's  house, 
talking  with  droning  deliberation.  Evidently 
no  cause  for  friction  had  yet  arisen.  They  let 
their  eyes  rove  on  beyond  the  guarded  doorway, 
to  pause  at  a  house  a  short  distance  away  at 
the  right.  There  stood  a  clubman,  who  leaned 
idly  on  his  weapon,  but  showed  no  intention  of 
moving  from  his  place.  The  door  of  that  house 
was  closed.  Not  only  closed,  but  barred  on  the 
outside. 

"Hm!  Looks  like  a  jail,"  said  Knowlton. 
Pedro  smiled,  but  an  intent  look  came  into  his 
face  and  he  studied  the  closed  house. 

Suddenly  both  started.  At  one  corner  of 
the  house,  unseen  by  the  clubman,  a  head  had 
cautiously  slipped  forth.  For  only  an  instant 
it  hung  there  before  dodging  back  out  of  sight. 
But  both  the  watching  men  had  seen  that  the 
face,  though  half  masked  by  long  dark  hair 
and  a  thick  beard,  was  much  lighter  than  that 
of  any  Red  Bone  savage.  And  in  the  hair 
above  one  ear  was  a  white  streak. 


CHAPTER  XX.    THE  RAPOSA 

MCKAY  and  Lourenco,  in  a  broad,  low, 
musty-smelling  room,  faced  a  man  who 
stood  and  a  man  who  sat.  The  man  who 
stood  was  the  old  savage  who  could  talk  in  the 
Mayoruna  language.  The  man  who  sat  was 
the  chief  of  the  Red  Bones. 

In  his  first  words  to  the  visitors  the  old  inter 
preter  revealed  that  the  name  of  the  Red  Bone 
ruler  was  Umanuh.  Later  on  Lourengo  informed 
McKay  that  in  the  Tupi  lengoa  geral  of  the 
Amazonian  Indians  (which,  however,  was  not 
spoken  by  this  tribe)  the  word  "umanuh"  meant 
"  corpse."  And  whatever  the  name  may  have 
signified  in  the  language  of  the  Red  Bones,  its 
Tupi  definition  fitted  with  disagreeable  precision. 
For  Umanuh  was  a  living  cadaver. 

Gaunt,  gray  skinned,  lank  haired,  hollow  of 
cheek  and  eye,  with  thin,  cruel  lips  so  tight 
drawn  that  the  teeth  behind  seemed  to  show 
through,  ribs  projecting,  clawlike  hands  resting 
on  bony  knees,  his  whole  frame  motionless  as  that 
of  a  man  long  dead,  the  head  man  of  the  bone- 
dyeing  tribe  was  the  antithesis  of  both  the  pig 
gish  Suba  and  the  herculean  Monitaya.  Only 
his  eyes  lived;  and  those  eyes  were  cold  and 
merciless  as  those  of  a  snake  or  a  vulture.  A 
man  who  ruled  by  ruthless  cunning,  who  would 


238  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

gaze  unmoved  on  the  most  ghastly  tortures,  who 
would  devour  human  flesh  with  ghoulish  relish — 
such  was  the  creature  who  sat  in  a  red-dyed 
hammock  and  contemplated  the  impassive  face 
of  McKay. 

"Umanuh,  great  chief,  eater  of  his  enemies, 
with  fangs  of  the  jaguar  and  wisdom  of  the  great 
snake,  awaits  the  greeting  of  the  one-whose-hair 
grows-from-his-mouth,"  droned  the  old  mouth 
piece  of  the  chief. 

"Makkay,  leader  of  the  fighting  men  of  the 
Blackbeards,  whose  voice  is  the  thunder  and 
whose  hand  spits  lightning  and  death,  gives 
greeting  to  Umanuh,"  responded  Lourengo  in  a 
like  droning  tone. 

A  pause.  Umanuh  gave  no  sign  of  life.  McKay, 
straight  and  cold,  met  the  unwinking  stare  of  the 
chief  with  his  own  chill  gray  gaze.  Between  the 
two  who  spoke  not  was  a  testing  of  wills. 

"Makkay  brings  with  him  none  of  the  Black- 
beard  warriors,"  pointed  out  the  interpreter, 
who  seemed  to  know  his  master's  thought.  "He 
comes  with  only  the  jungle  men  of  light  skins." 

"Makkay  needs  none  of  his  own  warriors  when 
he  comes  in  peace.  If  he  came  in  war  the  terrible 
Blackbeards  with  him  would  cause  the  whole 
forest  to  fly  apart  in  smoke  and  flame.  Since  he 
walks  in  peace  to  visit  his  friend  Umanuh,  of 
whose  wisdom  he  has  heard,  he  brings  only  his 
friends  the  Mayorunas,  who  are  friends  also  to  the 
men  of  the  Red  Bones." 


THE  RAPOSA  239 

Another  pause.  The  old  man  now  seemed 
somewhat  uncertain  of  himself.  The  silent  duel 
between  McKay  and  Umanuh  went  on.  At 
length  the  chief's  eyes  flickered  a  trifle.  In  a 
hissing  whisper  he  said  something. 

"The  men  of  the  Mayorunas  never  come  to 
this  country  unless  seeking  something,"  the  inter 
preter  promptly  spoke  up.  "What  do  they 
seek?" 

"Only  that  which  Makkay  seeks." 

Then,  turning  to  the  captain,  the  Brazilian 
added:  "Capitao,  we  now  have  reached  the  point 
to  talk  business.  Have  you  any  presents?  And 
is  it  your  wish  to  give  them  now  or  later?" 

"I  have  a  few  things.  But  I'll  give  them 
later — if  at  all.  This  chief  is  hostile.  Tell  him 
what  we're  here  for  and  see  how  he  acts." 

"It  has  come  to  the  ears  of  Makkay,"  Lourengo 
informed  the  man  of  Umanuh,  "that  a  man  of  the 
Blackbeards  lives  among  the  men  of  the  Red 
Bones.  Makkay  would  see  that  man." 

Again  the  interpreter  awaited  his  master's 
voice  before  answering. 

"No  man  of  the  Blackbeards  is  among  the  men 
of  Umanuh,"  he  then  denied. 

"If  he  is  not  among  them  he  is  near  them," 
was  Lourengo's  certain  reply.  "He  has  been 
seen  both  by  other  Blackbeards  and  by  the 
Mayorunas.  I,  too,  have  seen  him.  He  bears 
on  his  bones  the  sign  that  his  mind  is  out  of  his 
skull.  His  eyes  are  green  and  his  hair  touched 


240  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

with  white.  Umanuh  and  his  men  know  well 
that  I  speak  true." 

The  pause  this  tune  was  longer  than  before. 

"There  was  such  a  man,  but  he  is  gone." 

"Then  Makkay  asks  his  friend  Umanuh  to 
find  that  one.  A  chief  so  wise  can  easily  find  him 
where  others  would  see  only  water  and  mud." 

"If  he  could  be  found  what  would  the  great 
Blackbeard  leader  do  with  him?" 

Lourengo  thought  swiftly.  To  say  the  Raposa 
was  McKay's  friend  would  do  little  good. 
Friendship  meant  nothing  to  this  unfeeling 
brute.  Therefore  the  bushman  insinuated  some 
thing  which  his  cruel  mind  could  comprehend. 

"If  a  Red  Bone  man  abandoned  his  people 
and  went  to  another  tribe,  what  would  Umanuh 
do  to  him  when  he  was  found?" 

A  cold  glimmer  in  the  chief's  eyes  showed  that 
he  thought  he  understood.  Moreover,  he  would 
much  like  to  see  what  sort  of  torture  this  hard- 
faced  Blackbeard  would  use  on  a  fugitive.  It 
might  be  something  even  more  fiendish  than 
his  own  pastimes.  So  the  next  reply  came 
promptly. 

"If  that  man  is  found  the  blackbeard  will  pay 
for  him?" 

"There  are  gifts  of  friendship  for  Umanuh," 
Lourengo  nodded. 

"The  Blackbeard  leader  will  pay  more  than  the 
other  Blackbeard?" 

Lourenc.o  almost  blinked.    What  other  Black- 


THE  RAPOSA  241 

beard?  The  Raposa  himself?  But  the  Brazilian 
repressed  his  bewilderment. 

"Makkay  will  first  see  the  man  to  make  sure 
he  is  the  Blackboard  whom  Makkay  wants,"  he 
dodged.  "Then  he  will  pay  well." 

"Umanuh  will  see  the  gifts  now." 

"The  gifts  cannot  be  shown  now.  They  are 
packed  away.  When  Makkay  has  looked  on  the 
man  Umanuh  shall  look  on  the  gifts." 

Another  eye  duel  between  the  chief  and 
McKay.  As  before,  the  captain's  eye  proved  the 
harder. 

"Umanuh  will  think  of  the  matter.  Night 
comes.  The  man  hunted  by  the  Blackboard  is 
not  here.  The  Blackboard  and  his  men  may  stay 
to-night  across  the  water.  When  the  sun  rises 
again  Umanuh  will  talk  further." 

"It  is  well.  Let  Umanuh  tell  his  men  to  stay 
on  this  side  of  the  water,  that  we  may  not  mis 
take  them  in  the  night  for  enemies." 

When  Umanuh  had  hissed  assent  the  old  man 
stepped  to  the  doorway  and  summoned  the 
hatchet-faced  warrior.  To  him  instructions  were 
given.  He  turned  and  carried  the  commands 
to  the  tribesmen. 

"Makkay  wishes  Umanuh  peaceful  rest,"  said 
Lourengo.  With  which  he  flicked  his  eyes 
toward  the  door.  McKay,  with  stiff  stride, 
stalked  out.  Lourengo  followed.  Both  felt  the 
snake  eyes  of  the  cadaverous  chief  dwelling  on 
their  backs. 


242  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

To  the  waiting  Knowlton,  Pedro,  and  Tucu  it 
was  briefly  explained  that  preliminary  negotia 
tions  had  been  concluded  and  that  camp  now 
would  be  made  on  the  farther  side  of  the  creek. 
Tucu,  observing  that  the  Red  Bone  mass  behind 
was  dividing  again  to  let  the  visitors  pass  through, 
gave  the  word  to  his  men.  The  column  began  to 
move  out,  marching  in  reverse  order.  Pedro 
muttered  swiftly  to  his  partner. 

"Louren§o,  see  that  house  with  the  barred 
door  where  the  clubman  stands  guard.  Remem 
ber  where  it  is." 

The  other  swept  the  loop  in  one  quick  glance, 
located  the  house,  and  fell  into  step  without  a 
word,  the  guarded  structure  fixed  on  his  brain  as 
clearly  as  if  he  had  studied  it  for  an  hour. 
Walking  down  the  malodorous  street,  he  said, 
quietly,  "There  will  be  a  small  moon  to-night." 

"You  are  becoming  a  reader  of  the  mind, 
comrade,"  Pedro  grinned.  No  more  was  said. 

Down  to  the  shore  of  the  creek  trooped  the 
party,  followed  closely  by  the  hatchet-face  and  a 
score  of  tribesmen.  The  whites  and  the  Mayo- 
runas  got  into  half  a  dozen  of  the  waiting  canoes 
and  paddled  across.  In  other  dugouts  the  Red 
Bone  men  also  crossed,  but  they  did  not  land. 
As  soon  as  the  borrowed  boats  were  empty  the 
tribesmen  took  them  in  tow  and  returned  to 
their  own  bank.  The  visitors  were  left  on  a  partly 
cleared  shore,  separated  from  their  uncordial 
hosts  by  some  twenty  yards  of  deep  water.  Not 


THE  RAPOSA  243 

one  canoe  was  left  them.  Furthermore,  the  Red 
Bones  now  began  activities  indicating  an  inten 
tion  to  establish  a  night-longwatch  on  the  irside 
of  the  stream. 

"Taking  no  chances  of  our  raiding  them  to 
night,  or  even  snooping  around  town,"  said 
Knowlton.  "Keeping  everything  in  their  own 
hands.  Reckon  we'd  better  post  sentries  to 
night,  Rod,  just  to  keep  an  eye  on  that  outpost 
of  theirs." 

McKay  nodded. 

"We  four  will  take  it  hi  turn,"  he  agreed. 
"Lourengo — -Pedro — you — I.  Three-hour  tours." 

"Pardon,  Capitao,"  interposed  Pedro.  "It 
would  be  well  to  change  that.  You  two  senhores 
take  the  first  two  watches." 

"Why?"  frowned  McKay. 

"Because  Lourengo  and  I  wish  to  go  visiting. 
We  are  much  smitten  with  the  charms  of  the 
ladies  here." 

The  captain's  frown  deepened,  but  he  studied 
Pedro's  devil-may-care  face  keenly  before  an 
swering. 

"Humph!  What's  up  your  sleeve?  Out  with 
it!" 

Pedro  glanced  around  him  and  across  the 
water.  The  tribesmen,  both  of  the  Mayoruna 
force  and  of  the  Red  Bones,  were  watching  the 
colloquy. 

"We  are  watched,  Capitao.  Let  us  make 
camp  now  and  talk  later.  These  men  do  not 


244  J  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

understand  our  words,  but  we  cannot  tell  what 
they  may  see  in  our  faces.  Now  speak  harshly, 
as  if  I  had  been  insolent." 

McKay  did.  He  thundered  at  the  young 
bushman  as  if  about  to  do  him  bodily  injury. 

Pedro  retreated  a  step,  as  if  taken  aback  by  the 
storm  he  had  unleashed.  When  McKay  stopped 
he  replied:  "Excellent,  Capitao.  Now  I  go  to 
start  work  on  the  tambo." 

He  trudged  away  with  a  sullen  gait.  On  both 
sides  of  the  stream  the  Indians  muttered  and 
looked  at  the  tall  commander  with  increased 
respect.  Truly,  the  Blackbeard  was  a  fierce  ruler 
and  one  who  must  not  be  angered;  he  had  the 
voice  of  a  great  gun  and  the  temper  of  a  jaguar. 
That  other  man  was  lucky  to  have  his  head  still 
on  his  shoulders! 

When  the  camp  was  made  at  the  edge  of  the 
bush  and  the  four  comrades  were  grouped  in 
their  hammocks,  Lourengo  narrated  in  detail  the 
conversation  with  Umanuh.  Knowlton  recipro 
cated  with  news  of  what  he  and  Pedro  had  seen 
at  the  corner  of  the  barred  house. 

"I  almost  jumped  after  him,  Rod,"  he  ad 
mitted.  ' '  Had  all  I  could  do  to  hold  myself.  But 
I  knew  anything  sudden  like  that  might  start 
war  right  there,  and  we  wouldn't  have  a  China 
man's  chance  of  getting  away  with  him,  so  I 
stood  fast.  But  he's  here,  and  old  Umanuh's  a 
liar  by  the  clock  if  he  says  otherwise." 

"He  is  the  same  man  we  saw  in  the  forest, 


THE  RAPOSA  245 

Lourengo,  or  my  eyes  are  twisted,"  added  Pedro. 

"Hm!  Something  very  fishy  here,"  com 
mented  McKay. 

"Very  fishy  indeed,  Capitao,"  Lourenc,o 
echoed.  "The  man  is  within  call,  yet  Umamih 
says  he  is  not  here.  And  Umanuh  wants  us  to 
buy  the  man.  What  is  more,  he  asks  if  we  will 
pay  more  than  the  other  Blackbeard.  What  other 
Blackbeard?  The  man  himself  has  a  dark  beard, 
and  since  we  left  headquarters  Pedro  and  I  have 
grown  black  whiskers,  too.  Yet  Umanuh  can 
not  mean  the  crazy  man  would  pay  him  to  stay 
here,  or  that  either  of  us  Brazilians  would  try  to 
buy  him.  There  are  no  other  men  with  black 
beards  —  except  the  German  woman  -  stealer; 
and  of  course  he  cannot  be  the  one." 

"No?"  Pedro  asked,  softly. 

"No,  certainly.  Why?  Of  what  were  you 
thinking?" 

Pedro's  brown  eyes  twinkled,  but  he  made  no 
answer.  He  only  inhaled  a  long  puff  from  his 
cigarette  and  looked  across  the  water  at  the 
hairpin-shaped  town. 

"What  about  that  visiting  trip  of  yours  to 
night?"  McKay  asked. 

"I  wish  to  see  what  is  in  that  house  with  the 
barred  door,  Capitao.  When  I  am  curious  about 
such  a  matter  LourenQo  always  becomes  curious, 
too,  so  I  shall  have  to  take  him  with  me.  If  I  did 
not  he  would  say  I  was  making  love  to  the  chief's 

wives." 
17 


246  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"For  Deus!  That  may  be  all  the  barred  house 
holds — the  wives  of  the  chief,"  guessed  Lourengo. 
"Why  waste  time  and  risk  death  to  look  into  that 
place?" 

"Quern  nao  arrisca  nao  ganha,  as  the  coronel 
would  say — he  who  risks  nothing  gains  nothing. 
I  feel  that  we  should  visit  that  house.  Some 
thing  calls  me  back  to  it." 

Lourengo  studied  his  partner  a  moment,  then 
nodded  slowly.  But  McKay  interposed  decided 
objection. 

"Too  dangerous.  Also  unnecessary.  We'll 
get  Rand — if  the  man  is  Rand — through  the 
chief.  Your  night  spying  might  ruin  everything 
and  get  you  killed  into  the  bargain.  Nothing 
to  gain  and  all  to  lose.  Stay  here." 

Pedro's  eyes  hardened.  But  it  was  Lourengo 
who  answered. 

"Capitao,  I  think  we  had  best  do  as  Pedro 
says.  It  is  a  queer  thing  and  I  cannot  explain  it, 
but  I  have  known  him  to  have  such  ideas  in  the 
past  and  they  have  always  worked  out  for  the 
best.  He  himself  does  not  know  why  he  does 
some  things — things  which  look  totally  foolish 
and  which  often  are  very  dangerous — except  that 
he  feels  like  doing  them.  Yet  I  have  never  known 
this  foolishness  to  fail  to  turn  out  well.  He  and  I 
will  go  over  to-night  and  see  what  we  may  see." 

The  captain's  brows  drew  together.  Flat 
insubordination!  Then  he  remembered  that 
these  men  were  not  subordinates  at  all;  remem- 


THE  RAPOSA  247 

bered  also  what  Coronel  Nunes  said  concerning 
their  ability  to  get  into  and  out  of  dangerous 
situations.  When  Knowlton  sided  with  them 
he  capitulated. 

"Up  in  the  States  we'd  say  Pedro  was  ' riding 
his  hunch,"  was  [the  lieutenant's  remark. 
"And  I've  known  a  hunch  to  bring  all  kinds  of 
good  luck.  Gee!  I'd  like  to  go  across  with 
you  lads  myself!  But  I'm  no  jungle  expert, 
especially  after  dark,  and  I'd  only  be  in  the 
way.  Besides,  we'll  sure  have  to  stick  here  and 
keep  up  appearances  while  you're  gone.  How 
will  you  get  over?  There's  no  way  but  swim 
ming,  and  this  creek's  probably  inhabited  by 
the  usual  'gators  and  snakes  and  things." 

"When  one  can  travel  only  by  swimming,  one 
swims,"  Pedro  smiled.  "Leave  that  to  us, 
senhores.  Now  the  sun  sinks  fast  and  I  have 
hunger.  Let  us  eat." 

Night  was  at  hand.  While  the  whites  talked 
some  of  the  Mayorunas  had  quietly  slipped 
away  into  the  bush,  seeking  whatever  fresh  meat 
might  be  obtainable  without  straying  too  far 
from  camp.  Naturally,  the  hunting  was  poor 
so  near  an  inhabited  place,  but  now  the  absent 
men  came  stealing  back  with  a  few  small  birds 
and  one  monkey.  Though  the  savages  asked 
nothing  and  evidently  expected  nothing  from  the 
whites  to  eke  out  this  scant  provision,  the  latter 
opened  their  meager  larders  to  Tucu,  ordering 
him  to  see  that  every  man  had  at  least  a  few 


248  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

mouthfuls  to  eat.  Tucu,  like  a  good  commander, 
made  no  bones  of  accepting  the  invitation  for 
the  good  of  his  men.  When  all  hands  had  stowed 
away  the  last  meal  of  the  day  the  rations  were 
reduced  almost  to  the  vanishing  point. 

"Those  miserable  whelps  over  there  might 
have  had  the  decency  to  give  us  a  few  bites," 
Knowlton  growled,  looking  at  the  Red  Bone  men 
on  the  other  bank,  who  were  gorging  themselves 
on  meat  brought  by  then:  women. 

"It  is  quite  possible  that  they  intend  to  give 
us  several  bites  later  on,"  Pedro  suggested,  with 
a  mirthless  smile. 

"Uh-huh.  Shouldn't  wonder.  But  it's  also 
possible  that  they'll  have  to  assimilate  a  few  lead 
pills  before  chewing  us  up.  Rod,  we'll  have  our 
work  cut  out  standing  guard  to-night.  I 
wouldn't  put  it  past  that  lying  old  Umanuh  to 
try  rubbing  us  out  before  morning." 

"Nor  I,"  concurred  McKay.  "Only  ques 
tion  is  whether  he  dares  take  a  chance  against 
our  guns  and  against  the  likelihood  that  Moni- 
taya  will  send  other  men  to  investigate  our 
disappearance.  Better  keep  well  out  of  sight." 

As  he  spoke  the  last  light  of  day  vanished. 
Stars  and  a  quarter  moon  leaped  out  in  the 
swiftly  darkening  sky.  The  small  fire  of  the 
-'  expedition  threw  dim  shadows  against  the  poles 
of  the  night  shelters.  Lights  glimmered  in  the 
Red  Bone  huts,  and  other  lights  began  to  streak 
across  the  gloom — the  bright  little  lanterns  of 


THE  RAPOSA  249 

fireflies  coasting  along  the  stream.  But  at  the 
point  where  the  Red  Bone  night  guard  lurked 
no  light  shone.  They  had  built  no  fire,  and  now 
they  were  almost  invisible  in  the  faint  moon 
shine — sinister  shadows  which  even  now  might 
be  meditating  murder  or  worse. 

Lourenyo  lounged  over  to  Tucu,  who  was 
watching  those  shadows  with  a  fixed  cat  stare, 
and  informed  him  that  until  morning  a  man  with 
a  gun  would  be  always  on  guard  while  the  rest 
slept.  The  Indian  grunted  approval.  By  way 
of  precaution  against  being  killed  by  his  own  men, 
the  Brazilian  added  the  information  that  later 
on  he  and  his  comrade  would  leave  the  camp 
and  go  upstream  for  a  time.  At  this  Tucu's 
eyes  dwelt  on  his,  veered  to  the  lights  of  the 
town,  and  returned.  In  them  was  a  plain, 
though  unspoken,  question.  The  bushman  ig 
nored  it  and  strolled  back  to  his  tambo. 

The  moon  sailed  higher.  The  animal  uproar 
of  early  night  began  to  diminish.  The  fire, 
almost  buried  under  slow-burning  wood  whose 
acrid  smoke  alleviated  the  insect  pests,  smoldered 
dull  red.  McKay  and  Knowlton  drew  lots  for 
the  first  sleep,  the  captain  winning  and  promptly 
getting  under  his  net.  In  the  Mayoruna  shelter 
all  was  dark  and  silent,  each  man  sleeping  lightly 
with  one  hand  on  a  weapon.  The  two  Bra 
zilians  also  were  out  of  sight  in  their  hut. 

Up  and  down,  a  barely  distinguishable  figure, 
Knowlton  passed  slowly  with  holster  unbut- 


250  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

toned  and  rifle  cocked,  eyes  turning  periodically 
to  the  Red  Bone  outpost  and  ears  intent  to  pick 
any  unusual  sound  out  of  the  night  noise.  Grad 
ually  the  small  lights  of  the  town  faded  out. 
To  all  appearance,  sleep  had  whelmed  it  for  the 
night.  The  watchers  on  the  farther  shore  stirred 
a  little  at  tunes,  but  the  blot  they  made  in  the 
moonshine  remained  fixed  in  the  same  spot. 
The  only  moving  things  were  the  khaki-clad 
sentinel  and  the  blazing  fireflies. 

Another  hour  rolled  slowly  by.  The  sentinel 
stopped  and  stood  at  a  corner  of  the  tawibo. 
Now  was  as  good  a  time  as  any  for  the  Brazilians 
to  start  their  perilous  reconnaissance.  Per 
haps  they  had  gone  to  sleep.  He  squinted  at 
their  hammocks.  Yes,  they  were  occupied. 
Stepping  softly  to  the  hammock  of  Pedro,  he 
lifted  the  net  to  whisper  to  the  occupant.  Then 
he  stared,  dropped  the  net,  and  lifted  Lourenyo's 
curtain.  A  soft,  self-derisive  chuckle  sounded 
in  his  throat  as  he  stole  out  again. 

The  hammocks  were  occupied,  yes;  but  only 
by  packs  and  rifles.  Armed  only  with  machetes, 
the  two  bushmen  now  were — where?  He  did 
not  even  know  when  or  which  way  they  had 
gone.  Fine  sentinel,  wasn't  he,  to  let  two  full- 
grown  men  sneak  away  right  under  his  nose? 
And  if  they  could  get  out  so  slick,  why  couldn't 
somebody  else — a  murderous  Red  Bone,  for 
instance — get  in  with  equal  facility? 

Wherefore   he   became   all    the    more   alert. 


THE  RAPOSA  251 

Instead  of  resuming  his  slow  pace,  he  stood  quiet 
at  a  corner,  scrutinizing  everything  within  his 
range  of  vision,  listening  more  intently  than 
ever.  Two  or  three  times  he  leaned  forward 
and  lifted  his  piece  as  some  splashing  noise  in 
the  creek  came  to  him;  but  each  time  the  canni 
bal  guards  on  the  other  bank  also  sprang  to  see 
what  caused  the  sound,  then  grunted  to  one 
another  and  relaxed,  so  he  knew  it  was  made  by 
piscatory  or  reptilian  life.  Near  him  nothing 
moved.  And  the  moon  sailed  on  westward, 
smoothly,  steadily  measuring  off  the  silent  hours 
of  the  night  watch. 

Then  all  at  once  every  nerve  in  him  strained 
toward  the  back  of  the  tambo.  Something  was 
there!  He  had  not  heard  it — seen  it — smelled 
it — but  he  felt  it;  a  nameless  thing  that  did 
not  belong  there.  With  smooth  speed  he  piv 
oted,  looked,  listened.  Nothing  there. 

Motionless,  feeling  slightly  creepy,  concealed 
under  the  roof  corner,  he  waited.  A  sound 
came — a  stealthy  sound.  Something  was  creep 
ing  in.  Lourengo  and  Pedro,  perhaps?  Stoop 
ing  low,  he  peered  along  the  ground  under  the 
hammocks. 

A  man  was  coming — coming  on  all-fours  like 
an  animal.  He  was  too  stealthy  to  be  either  of 
the  Brazilians.  Knowlton  glimpsed  him  only 
dimly,  but  he  was  sure  this  was  no  man  who 
belonged  here.  And  now,  as  on  a  previous  occa 
sion  almost  identical  in  its  circumstances,  the 


252  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

watchman  acted  in  accordance  with  Tim  Ryan's 
General  Order  Number  Thirteen. 

In  three  jumps  he  was  upon  the  invader. 
His  gun  butt  crashed  down  on  the  rising  head. 
The  other  collapsed  on  the  ground. 

Swiftly  Knowlton  snapped  a  match  with  his 
thumb-nail.  The  sudden  flare  half  blinded  him, 
but  what  he  saw  made  him  suck  in  his  breath. 
When  the  match  went  out  he  turned  the  sense 
less  body  over,  drew  his  pocket  flashlight, 
stabbed  its  white  ray  downward.  Then  he  com 
mitted  the  unpardonable  sin  of  the  army — he 
dropped  his  rifle. 

Dark  haired,  dark  bearded,  streaked  with  red 
dye  and  bleeding  slightly  at  the  nose,  at  his  feet 
lay  the  man  for  whom  the  indomitable  trio  had 
traveled  thousands  of  miles  and  dared  all  the 
deaths  of  the  jungle — the  Raposa. 


CHAPTER  XXI.     SHADOWS  OF  THE 
NIGHT 

OD!    Wake  up!" 

The  tense  whisper  aroused  McKay 
instantly.  With  one  sweep  of  the  arm 
his  net  was  torn  aside  and  he  leaped  out  with 
pistol  drawn. 

" Right,  Merry.    What  is  it?" 

"We've  got  him!    Look!" 

The  electric  ray  again  streaked  the  gloom. 
The  astounded  captain  did  not  drop  his  gun, 
but  he  came  near  it.  For  a  long  minute  he 
stood  as  in  a  trance.  When  he  attempted  to 
holster  his  weapon  he  fumbled  three  times 
for  the  sheath  before  he  found  it. 

"Whew!"  he  breathed.  "Have  you  killed  him?" 

"Nope — don't  think  so.  Lord!  I  hope  not! 
Now  that  I  think  of  it,  I  did  give  him  a  mighty 
solid  smash.  Used  the  butt.  He  was  crawling 
in  here,  and  naturally  I  didn't  stop  to  ask  for 
his  card.  Feel  his  head." 

McKay  complied.  His  exploring  fingers  found 
only  a  huge  bump  under  the  thick  hair. 

"No,  his  skull's  whole.  Didn't  even  split  the 
scalp.  You  crowned  him  hard,  but  unless  he 
got  concussion  he's  still  useful.  His  nosebleed 
comes  from  hitting  the  ground,  I  think.  Turn 
off  the  light.  Are  you  still  on  guard?" 


254  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"Yes.    The  Brazilians  are  out." 

"Take  a  turn  and  see  that  all's  clear.  Can't 
tell  what  might  break  any  minute  now.  Leave 
your  flash  here." 

Passing  the  flat,  nickel  light-box  to  the  captain, 
Knowlton  retrieved  his  gun  from  the  ground  and 
resumed  his  patrol.  Slight  as  the  disturbance  had 
been,  uneasiness  was  in  the  air.  The  savages  on 
the  far  shore  were  up,  peering  at  the  tambo  and 
muttering  to  one  another.  Measuring  the  dis 
tance,  the  lieutenant  saw  that,  though  they  had 
undoubtedly  seen  the  flashlight  switched  on  and 
off  and  made  out  the  movements  of  men,  they 
could  not  have  discerned  what  lay  on  the  ground 
beyond  the  hammocks.  Nearer  at  hand,  Tucu 
and  a  couple  of  the  Mayorunas  were  awake  and 
looking  out.  But  the  sight  of  the  sentinel 
strolling  up  and  down  in  apparent  unconcern  and 
the  absence  of  light  in  the  tambo  gradually  quieted 
the  suspicions  on  both  sides  of  the  water.  Soon 
the  Red  Bones  squatted  again  and  the  Mayo 
runas  lay  back  with  minds  at  ease. 

Then  a  dim  sheen  of  light  showed  for  a  time  at 
the  back  of  the  white  men's  shelter,  fading  out 
after  a  few  minutes  into  the  usual  gloom.  McKay 
had  pulled  a  blanket  over  himself  and  the  un 
conscious  man,  masking  his  torch  glare  from 
any  watching  eye  while  he  studied  the  face 
and  form  of  the  invader.  After  the  faint  radi 
ance  vanished  certain  sounds  came  to  the  sen 
try's  ears.  Then  McKay's  tall  figure  loomed 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  NIGHT  255 

in  the  vague  moonshine.  Knowlton  stopped 
beside  him. 

"It's  Rand,"  the  captain  vouchsafed  in  an 
undertone.  "No  question  of  it.  Features  iden 
tical,  though  face  is  drawn.  White  hair  mark, 
broken  nose,  green  eyes.  I  opened  one  eye.  Got 
a  bad  foot,  partly  healed;  looks  as  if  he'd  torn  it 
on  a  stub.  Poor  devil  seems  nearly  starved." 

"So?  Then  that's  why  he  sneaked  in  like 
that — wanted  to  steal  some  grub.  Those  mutts 
over  yonder  probably  haven't  fed  him  since  he 
got  hurt." 

"That's  it.  He's  had  to  do  his  own  foraging, 
and  his  foot  has  given  him  mighty  little  chance. 
Damn  those  brutes!" 

"Right!  But  now  what?  Look  out  that  he 
doesn't  sneak  away  again." 

"He  won't.  I  tied  his  feet.  He's  in  Pedro's 
hammock,  still  dead  to  the  world.  If  he  wakes 
up  and  starts  to  yell  I'll  gag  him.  We've  got  to 
get  away  now  as  soon  as  we  can." 

"How?" 

"Don't  know.  By  water,  perhaps.  Wish  those 
bushman  were  here.  Haven't  heard  any  noise 
over  there,  have  you?" 

"All  quiet.     They're  safe — or  dead." 

"Hm!  Confounded  foolishness,  anyway.  But 
we've  no  means  of  getting  out  until  they're  back. 
Couldn't  desert  them,  besides.  What  time  is  it?" 

" Ten-thirty.    You  go  on  watch  at  midnight." 

"I'm  on  watch  now,  inside.    They  may  be 


256  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

back  any  time.  If  they  don't  show  up  in  the 
next  couple  of  hours  I'll  send  Tucu  to  find  out 
why.  We'll  have  to  get  those  canoes  over  here, 
too.  Water  leaves  no  trail." 

He  turned  back  into  the  hut,  leaving  Knowlton 
figuring  chances.  To  obtain  those  canoes  was  a 
man-sized  job.  To  put  the  Red  Bone  guards  out 
of  action  without  arousing  the  whole  tribe  was  an 
even  bigger  job.  But  no  boats  could  be  brought 
over  until  the  outpost  was  silenced,  that  was  sure. 

Another  half-hour  crept  past.  Still  no  noise 
from  the  town,  no  suspicious  move  on  the  other 
shore.  Then  from  the  tambo  itself  came  a  low 
mumble  of  voices.  Knowlton  stepped  swiftly  into 
it.  As  noiselessly  as  they  had  gone  the  two  bush- 
men  had  returned. 

In  his  usual  concise  phrases  McKay  was  in 
forming  them  of  the  capture  of  the  Raposa.  With 
his  back  to  the  stream  and  the  flashlight  held 
close  to  his  body,  he  played  the  light  for  an  instant 
on  the  face  of  the  still  unconscious  man.  Then, 
once  more  in  darkness,  he  asserted : 

"Now  that  we  have  him,  we  must  get  out  of 
here.  Only  chance  to  do  that  is  to  get  the  canoes. 
With  them  we  can  at  least  be  away  from  this  town 
by  sunrise,  and  it  will  take  the  Red  Bones  just  so 
much  longer  to  find  our  trail  where  we  take  to 
the  bush.  We'll  get  a  flying  start  that  way. 
Anything  else  to  suggest?" 

"That  is  the  best  plan,  Capitao,"  Lourengo 
agreed.  For  the  first  time  since  the  Americans 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  NIGHT  257 

had  known  him  his  voice  held  a  note  of  suppressed 
excitement.  "It  is  the  only  plan  worth  while. 
And  I  do  not  think  we  shall  have  to  take  to  our 
legs  soon — if  at  all.  I  believe  this  creek  connects 
with  that  which  flows  past  the  Monitaya  malocas. 
We  have  learned  some  things.  Por  Deus!  If 
only  we  had  known  the  Raposa  was  here!" 

"Why?" 

"Because  then  we  could  have  brought  com 
pany  with  us.  Senhores,  guess  what  the  barred 
house  holds." 

"Well?" 

"Women  of  the  Mayorunas!  Girls  stolen 
from  Monitaya  and  other  settlements!" 

"Jumping  Judas!"  ejaculated  Knowlton. 
"Are  you  sure?" 

"Sure,  comrades!  These  foul  Red  Bones 
are  the  men  who  have  been  lurking  around  the 
Mayoruna  tribe  houses  and  capturing  girls  who 
went  into  the  bush.  They  have  taken  the  pris 
oners  to  the  water,  where  the  trails  always  were 
lost  and  where  they  could  find  hiding  places 
until  night,  then  drive  their  canoes  past  the 
clearings  and  get  out  of  that  country.  So  there 
must  be  some  water  connection  by  which  these 
men  travel,  and  by  which  we  too  can  travel. 
If  we  go  downstream  we  are  almost  sure  to  find 
it  by  daylight." 

"But  why — what's  the  idea  of  their  stealing 
the  girls?  For  victims?  If  so,  how  are  the 
girls  still  alive?" 


258  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"Do  you  not  see,  senhor?"  Pedro  broke  in, 
impatiently.  "Did  not  Umamih  ask  if  we  would 
pay  more  than  the  other  Blackbeard  for  the 
Raposa?  What  other  Blackbeard?" 

"Schwandorf !"  the  Americans  blurted,  simul 
taneously. 

"Not  so  loud!  Schwandorf,  of  course! 
Umanuh  works  with  the  German.  He  catches 
girls  by  stealth  and  sells  them  to  the  German  to 
add  to  his  slave  gangs.  While  the  Mayorunas 
all  blame  the  Peruvians  for  the  disappearances, 
Umanuh  works  unsuspected.  He  is  holding 
these  women  until  Schwandorf  comes  again — 
and  it  may  be  that  Schwandorf  is  not  far  off  at 
this  moment.  Now  that  we  have  come  seeking 
the  wild  man,  Umanuh  at  once  thinks  of  selling 
him  also;  and  he  wonders  whether  we  or  Schwan 
dorf  will  pay  the  more  for  him." 

"By  thunder!  I  believe  you're  right!"  Knowl- 
ton  coincided.  "He's  stalling  for  tune,  holding 
us  here  while  Schwandorf  comes  up,  I'll  bet. 
No  wonder  he  and  his  men  are  wary  of  the 
Mayorunas — they  thought  we'd  come  to  snoop 
around  and  catch  'em  with  the  goods.  You 
fellows  must  have  done  a  mighty  slick  job  to 
find  out  this  stuff  without  getting  caught. 
Isn't  the  house  guarded  at  night?" 

"Indeed  it  is!  Two  clubmen  are  there  now, 
and  there  is  only  the  one  door.  Not  even  a 
window.  But  Lourengo  worked  a  small  hole 
between  two  logs  at  the  back  while  I  watched 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  NIGHT  259 

the  clubmen,  and  through  the  hole  he  whispered 
with  one  of  the  women  inside.  If  only  we  had 
known  the  wild  man  was  here  we  could  have 
jumped  the  guards  and  tried  to  bring  back  the 
women.  But  of  course  your  business  about  the 
Raposa  had  to  be  thought  of  first,  so  all  we 
could  do  was  to  tell  them  friends  were  here." 

For  a  few  seconds  there  was  the  silence  of 
thought.  Then  Knowlton  chuckled. 

"I'll  say  we  have  our  hands  full  this  night. 
Now  we  not  only  have  to  get  ourselves  and  Rand 
out  of  here,  but  also  rescue  the  fair  damsels 
from  the  clutches  of  the  ogre.  'Twon't  do  to 
leave  them  here  while  we  go  back  to  Monitaya 
and  get  the  rest  of  his  army.  By  the  time  we 
could  come  back  they'd  be  gone — one  way  or 
another.  What's  done  has  to  be  done  now  or 
never." 

"Right!"  McKay  commended.  "We'll  have 
to  save  the  women,  of  course.  Question  is — 
how?" 

Louren§o  answered  at  once. 

"My  idea,  Capitao,  is  this:  We  two  will 
return.  With  us  we  will  take  Tucu.  The 
three  of  us  can  handle  those  guards  quietly. 
We  must  have  Tucu,  because  the  women  do 
not  know  us  and  might  balk  at  the  last  moment. 
Women  are  queer  creatures,  and  these  might 
think  themselves  safer  inside  prison  walls  than 
following  two  strange  men  through  the  night; 
but  Tucu  can  handle  them.  When  once  we 


260  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

are  clear  of  the  houses  Tucu  can  lead  the  women 
to  the  bank  above  here,  and  we  shall  try  for  the 
canoes.  Then  it  will  be  fast  work  to  get  away, 
but  if  we  have  good  fortune  it  can  be  done." 

11  Confound  it!  You  fellows  are  taking  all 
the  risks!  Can't  you  take  more  men — " 

"No.  No  man  but  Tucu.  He  has  a  cool 
head.  These  others,  if  they  knew,  would  go 
blood-mad  and  attack  the  Red  Bones  to  avenge 
their  lost  women,  and  so  would  get  us  all  killed. 
Now  I  will  talk  with  Tucu." 

He  slipped  into  the  Mayoruna  shelter  and 
returned  with  the  cannibal  leader,  whom  he  led 
to  the  far  side  of  the  tambo  before  speaking. 
Then,  in  whispers  which  the  other  tribesmen 
could  not  overhear,  he  explained  the  situation. 
Knowlton  took  another  turn  or  two  along  his 
post,  rinding  that  the  Red  Bones  across  the 
water  were  stirring  about  and  evidently  aware 
that  something  was  going  on;  but  they  made  no 
move  either  to  get  into  a  canoe  or  to  send  a  man 
to  the  houses  beyond.  As  he  stopped  again  at 
the  corner  near  the  whispering  pair  he  heard 
Tucu  grinding  his  teeth,  and  as  the  savage 
turned  his  face  toward  the  Red  Bone  outpost 
it  was  a  mask  of  murder.  But  he  spoke  no  word 
as  he  slipped  back  to  his  own  men. 

"He  will  wake  another  man  and  tell  him  what 
to  do,"  Louren£O  explained.  "But  only  we  four 
shall  know  of  the  women  until  they  are  freed. 
Will  one  of  you  lend  Tucu  a  machete?  He  may 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  NIGHT  261 

need  a  weapon,  and  he  cannot  carry  his  big  bow 
on  this  trip." 

A  few  minutes  later  the  three  crept  out  behind 
the  tambo,  Tucu  gripping  McKay's  machete. 
As  a  final  word  Lourengo  said:  "Our  men  here 
may  move  about  a  little  after  a  time,  but  do  not 
try  to  keep  them  quiet.  It  is  a  part  of  the 
plan." 

With  that  he  was  gone.  Listen  as  they  might, 
the  Americans  could  hear  no  sound  to  indicate 
that  three  men  now  were  traversing  the  black 
tangle  beyond. 

McKay  took  up  his  rifle  and  assumed  the 
sentry  work.  Knowlton  sat  in  his  hammock, 
grateful  for  the  chance  to  rest  his  weary  legs. 
From  the  hammock  where  the  Raposa  lay  no 
sound  came.  With  a  worried  frown  the  lieu 
tenant  leaned  over  him  and  laid  hand  on  his 
heart.  After  a  while  he  sat  up  again  in  relief. 

"Lord!  I  sure  knocked  him  cold!"  was  his 
thought.  "But  he's  still  with  us,  and  there's 
no  use  hi  reviving  him  now;  the  less  noise  over 
here  the  better.  Hope  I  didn't  jar  his  brains 
loose  altogether;  he  might  wake  up  a  murderous 
maniac.  Poor  devil!  A  millionaire,  yet  half 
starved  and  more  than  half  nutty." 

He  glanced  at  the  dim  scene  before  the  hut. 
The  moon  now  had  journeyed  so  far  westward 
that  the  creeping  shadows  of  the  tall  trees  had 
moved  out  almost  to  the  creek,  and  the  two  crude 
shelters  and  the  sentinel  were  surrounded  by 

18 


262  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

dense  gloom.  The  Red  Bone  men  opposite  must 
rely  on  their  ears  alone  hereafter,  for  they  could 
not  see  through  this  darkness.  McKay  was 
visible  enough  to  his  own  party,  but  not  to  the 
enemy.  The  blond  man  in  the  hammock  watched 
the  somber  figure  of  his  comrade,  followed  the 
flight  of  a  big  firefly  whose  light  floated  near, 
thought  of  the  two  bushmen  out  hi  the  dark, 
and  looked  again  at  the  still  form  of  Rand. 

"Drifters  all,"  he  soliloquized.  "The  fireflies 
and  Rod  and  Tim  and  I  and  those  Brazilian  dare 
devils — all  floating  around  because  we  can't 
keep  still,  and  never  getting  anywhere.  And 
you,  you  silly-ass  Rand,  have  a  mint  waiting 
for  you  up  home,  and  we  have  to  come  find 
you  and  lead  you  up  there  and  shove  your  nose 
into  it.  And  if  you  get  your  brains  back  you'll 
be  a  nine  days'  wonder  and  a  hero  of  the  jungle 
and  all  that,  and  the  girls  will  all  tumble  over 
you — because  you've  got  a  couple  of  millions  hi 
your  sock.  And  we  fellows  who  yanked  you 
out  of  hell  by  the  left  hind  leg  can  pocket  our 
pay  and  go  jump  off  the  dock,  for  all  anybody 
cares.  Ho-hum!  All  the  same,  I'd  rather  be 
me  than  you,  old  thing.  Free  to  drift  and  able 
to  handle  myself.  You  can  have  the  money 
and  the  moths  that  hang  around  it." 

With  which  he  yawned,  squinted  again  at 
the  sinister  figure  squatting  out  yonder  in  the 
monshine,  arose,  and  made  himself  useful. 
Working  very  quietly,  he  took  down  three  of 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  NIGHT  263 

the  hammocks,  rolled  them  up,  laid  them  at  the 
corner  nearest  the  creek;  made  up  the  packs  by 
sense  of  touch  and  placed  them  and  the  rifles 
of  the  absent  pair  in  the  same  place.  Then  he 
lifted  the  Raposa  from  the  one  remaining  ham 
mock,  laid  him  on  the  packs,  rolled  up  the 
hammock  itself,  and  put  it  under  the  unconscious 
man's  head.  If  given  time  when  the  crisis  came, 
he  meant  to  save  all  equipment.  If  not,  Rand 
lay  where  he  could  be  grabbed  without  delay. 

Before  he  completed  the  work  he  became 
aware  that  the  Mayorunas  all  were  awake. 
Not  only  awake,  but  moving  stealthily  about, 
as  Lourengo  had  predicted.  McKay  also  knew 
it  and  stepped  back  into  the  hut,  where  Knowl- 
ton  told  him  what  he  had  done.  But  so  softly 
did  the  men  of  Monitaya  move  that  the  Red 
Bone  watchers  showed  no  sign  of  alarm.  Both 
the  Americans  observed,  however,  that  the  can 
nibals  across  the  stream  had  their  heads  together 
and  that  occasionally  one  looked  up  at  the  little 
moon. 

"Get  that,  Rod?  They're  waiting  for  the 
shadows  to  crawl  over  there  and  cover  them  and 
the  water.  They  know  that  then  we  can't  see 
what  they're  up  to.  I'm  betting  they  intend  to 
pull  some  dirty  work  after  that." 

"Yep.  But  intention  and  accomplishment 
are  two  different  birds.  Wonder  what  these 
Mayorunas  are  fixing  to  do.  Wish  I  could  talk 
their  language." 


264  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL  , 

"Tucu  evidently  left  orders  for  them  to  get 
up  at  a  certain  time,  but  why  I  don't  know. 
We'd  better  let  them  alone." 

The  shadow  line  passed  out  upon  the  water, 
slipping  by  infinitesimal  gradations  across  its 
mirror  surface.  The  Mayorunas  had  become 
quiet.  The  whites  waited  in  silent  suspense  for 
they  knew  not  what.  Far  out  in  the  forest  a 
jaguar  gave  his  coughing  roar  at  intervals. 
Little  by  little  the  Red  Bone  men  arose  from 
their  squat  until  they  stood  erect.  A  tense 
stillness  held  both  forces.  And  the  shadows 
crawled  on — on — and  reached  the  farther  bank. 

Then  a  Red  Bone  man  shoved  his  head  for 
ward,  squinting  upstream  as  if  he  had  heard 
something  move  in  the  rank  grass.  He  began 
to  sneak  softly  in  that  direction.  At  that 
moment,  from  the  water's  edge  a  little  above  the 
camp,  sounded  a  loud  hiss. 

Before  the  sound  died  a  sudden  thrum  of  bow 
cords  filled  the  air.  A  whisper  of  five-foot  shafts 
speeding  over  the  water — a  rapid-fire  series  of 
tiny  impacts — a  couple  of  short  groans — the 
thumps  of  falling  bodies — and  the  Red  Bone 
outpost  was  no  more.  Shot  through  and  through 
by  the  deadly  war  arrows  of  the  Mayorunas, 
they  were  dead  before  they  struck  the  ground. 
And  from  the  men  of  Monitaya  sounded  one 
short,  subdued  "Hah!"  of  savage  satisfaction. 

Up  from  the  ground  where  that  hiss  had 
sounded  rose  a  tall  figure  which  waved  its  arms 


'  SHADOWS  OF  THE  NIGHT  265 

and  danced  about  in  impromptu  signals.  Then 
it  ran  for  the  canoes.  Out  from  the  gloom 
upstream  other  figures  took  shape,  running  fast 
for  the  same  point.  With  one  simultaneous 
movement  Knowlton  and  McKay  seized  the 
Raposa  and  rushed  with  him  to  the  stream. 

"Senhores!"  sounded  Pedro's  voice,  low  but 
tense,  across  the  water.  "Be  ready!" 

"Ready    and    waiting!"    snapped    McKay. 
"Who  are  those  people.    Your  women?" 
:    "Si.    We  are  not  discovered — " 

Across  his  words  smote  a  long  shrill  yell  from 
the  town. 

" Par  Delis*  We  are  discovered!  Get  our 
rifles,  for  the  love  of  Deus  Padre. " 

He  leaped  into  a  canoe,  drove  it  headlong 
across,  and  dived  for  the  tambo.  Behind  him 
the  other  figures  dashed  panting  up  to  the 
landing.  Tucu's  voice  rasped  in  swift  com 
mands.  The  fugitives  swarmed  into  other  dug 
outs.  The  Mayoruna  men,  still  ignorant  of  the 
identity  of  these  people,  but  assured  by  Tucu's 
voice  and  manner  that  they  were  not  enemies, 
lowered  their  weapons  and  rushed  for  the  water. 
Up  in  the  town  the  yelling  swiftly  grew  into  a 
roar,  and  running  figures  came  pelting  toward 
the  creek. 

The  canoes  struck  the  bank.  Some  were  partly 
filled,  some  empty  and  in  tow.  Into  Pedro's 
canoe  the  whites  bundled  the  Raposa,  while  the 
Mayorunas  got  into  anything  within  reach. 


26G  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

Lourengo  appeared  from  nowhere  and  urged  the 
Americans  to  open  fire.  As  he  spoke,  arrows 
thudded  into  the  ground  and  the  water. 

"Take  this  man  and  go!"  rasped  McKay. 
"We're  losing  our  equipment,  but — " 

His  rifle  leaped  to  his  shoulder.  Flame  spat 
from  it.  From  the  van  of  the  charging  Red 
Bones  shrilled  a  death  scream. 

Again  and  again  the  captain's  gun  cracked. 
Knowlton's  joined  in.  Before  their  rifles  grew 
silent  the  blunt  roar  of  Pedro's  repeater  broke 
out.  And  with  the  emptying  of  their  long 
guns  the  Americans  drew  then*  short  ones,  and 
in  a  concerted  ripping  crash  the  forty-fives 
volleyed  death  and  dismay  into  the  oncoming 
cannibals. 

The  rush  was  checked.  For  a  few  seconds  the 
Red  Bones  wavered  and  milled  about.  Into 
their  mass  poured  a  cloud  of  arrows  and  blow- 
gun  darts  from  the  silent  but  no  less  deadly 
weapons  of  the  Mayorunas.  As  the  whites 
paused  to  reload,  Pedro  opened  a  new  blast 
from  Lourengo's  rifle,  which  his  comrade  had 
passed  to  him  on  the  run.  Lourengo  was  not 
shooting,  but  working  madly  and  alone  to  save 
the  equipment.  And,  thanks  to  the  renewed 
deadly  fire  of  the  guns,  he  saved  it. 

Before  the  wicked  belch  of  the  three  rifles 
and  the  two  automatics  the  Red  Bones  gave 
back  more  and  more.  Their  arrows  plunged  all 
around  the  fighting  men,  but  they  fell  at 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  NIGHT  267 

random,  for  the  gunmen  and  the  canoes  were 
virtually  invisible  in  the  deep  shadows.  Down 
stream,  Tucu's  harsh  voice  jarred  in  commands 
as  he  straightened  out  the  line  of  boats. 

At  the  next  lull  in  the  firing  Lourengo  panted: 
"In,  comrades!  We  are  loaded.  In!" 

"Great  guns!  Are  you  still  here?"  snapped 
McKay.  "I  told  you—" 

"In!    Talk  later.    Come!" 

The  three  gun  fighters  swiftly  obeyed.  With  a 
powerful  heave  Lourengo  sent  the  canoe  after  the 
others.  Americans,  Brazilians,  and  the  Raposa 
hunched  up  among  the  packs,  all  went  sliding 
down  a  jungle  Styx. 

A  moment  later  the  Red  Bone  warriors,  taking 
heart  from  the  cessation  of  firing,  poured  an 
avalanche  of  arrows  into  the  spot  where  they  had 
been.  And  as  the  canoe,  last  in  the  escaping  line, 
was  swallowed  up  in  the  impenetrable  blackness 
of  the  forest  a  hair-raising  screech  of  diabolical 
fury  blended  with  a  swift  succession  of  splashes 
back  where  the  cannibals  were  plunging  headlong 
into  the  stream  to  reach  the  dead  or  wounded 
men  whom  they  vainly  hoped  to  find  on  the 
farther  shore. 

"I  told  you  to  take  this  man  and  go!"  McKay 
fumed.  "By  disobeying  orders  you  risked  losing 
him." 

"Oh,  pipe  down,  Rod!"  remonstrated  Knowl- 
ton.  "If  they  had,  where'd  we  be  now?  This 
was  the  last  canoe." 


268  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL] 

"Si.  It  is  so,"  added  Lourengo,  his  voice 
hard  edged.  "As  it  is,  the  man  and  the  equip 
ment  and  you  also  are  here.  And  let  me  tell  you 
this,  Capitao  Makkay,  whether  you  like  it  or  not : 
Pedro  and  I  would  see  this  wild  man  and  a  million 
others  like  him  in  a  hotter  place  than  this  before 
we  would  abandon  righting  comrades." 

To  which  McKay,  finding  no  adequate  answer, 
made  none  whatever. 


CHAPTER  XXII.     THE  SIREN  OF  WAR 

E33  a  fleet  manned  by  sightless  sailors  the 
line  of  boats  blundered  on  through  the 
blackness.  With  no  guiding  light,  the 
canoes  bumped  the  banks  and  collided  with  one 
another  in  perilous  confusion.  Speed  was  im 
possible,  yet  speed  was  imperative.  Knowlton 
and  his  little  flashlight  solved  the  problem. 

"Say,  fellows,  let's  take  the  lead,"  he  suggested. 
"This  little  light  isn't  much,  but  it's  something r 
and  there  are  some  extra  batteries  in  my  haver 
sack  when  this  burns  out.  We  can  see  a  little 
way  ahead,  and  pass  back  the  word  to  the  rest. 
What  say?" 

"Na  terra  dos  cegos  quern  tern  um  olho  e  rei — in 
blindman's  land  he  who  has  one  eye  is  king," 
said  Pedro.  "That  little  white  eye  in  your  box 
may  save  us  all.  Lourengo,  tell  those  ahead  to 
let  us  pass." 

Without  question  the  preceding  dugouts 
swerved,  and  the  boat  of  the  white  men  slipped 
by.  At  the  head  of  the  line  they  found  Tucu 
and  his  crew  struggling  manfully  to  make  prog 
ress  without  wrecking  the  whole  fleet  at  the 
turns.  Vast  relief  and  instant  acceptance  of  the 
new  leadership  followed  Lourengo's  explanation. 
At  once  the  floating  column  began  to  pick  up 
speed.  And  it  was  well  that  it  did. 


270  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

Howls  of  baffled  hate  came  faintly  through  the 
tree  mass  from  the  Red  Bone  town.  Some  time 
later  more  yells  of  rage  sounded,  much  nearer — 
back  at  a  place  on  the  creek  which  the  last  boat 
had  cleared  only  a  few  minutes  previously.  Some 
of  the  Umanuh  men  had  made  torches  and  run 
along  one  of  the  Red  Bone  trails  to  a  bend  hi  the 
stream,  only  to  find  the  water  bare  of  every 
thing  but  dying  ripples. 

Whether  the  enemy  attempted  to  follow  in 
canoes  the  escaping  party  never  knew,  for  none 
succeeded  in  overtaking  the  rearmost  boat.  And 
after  that  one  snarling  uproar  on  the  creek  bank 
they  heard  no  more  of  the  land  pursuit.  The 
narrow  margin  of  safety  gained  by  the  aid  of  the 
flashlight  proved  enough  to  give  a  commanding 
lead,  and  from  that  time  on  the  only  obstacles 
to  their  retreat  were  those  of  darkness  and  wind 
ing  waters. 

Hour  after  hour  Knowlton  squatted  in  the  ex 
treme  bow,  picking  out  the  turns  and  snags  just 
ahead  and  passing  the  word  back  to  Lourengo, 
who,  in  the  stern,  steered  in  accordance  with  his 
orders  and  relayed  the  course  to  Tucu,  just  be 
hind.  Amidships,  Pedro  and  McKay  plied  steady 
paddles  and  the  Raposa  lay  all  but  forgotten  on 
the  baggage.  There  were  no  halts.  If  any  boat 
back  in  the  blackness  got  into  difficulties  it  ex 
tricated  itself  as  best  it  could,  unaided  by  the  rest, 
and  fell  into  a  new  place  in  the  column. 

At  last  a  wan  light,  which  was  scarcely  a  light, 


THE  SIREN  OF  WAR  271 

but  rather  a  lessening  of  the  density,  came  about 
the  stream.  The  renewed  racket  of  birds  and 
beasts  announced  that  up  overhead  the  sky  had 
paled  into  dawn.  Slowly  the  nearest  tree  trunks 
began  to  take  shape  in  the  void,  and  presently 
the  shore  line  became  visible  to  all  eyes.  At  the 
same  time  Knowlton's  tiny  lamp  dimmed  and 
faded  out. 

"Another  battery  gone,"  he  announced,  open 
ing  the  case  and  dropping  its  contents  into  the 
creek.  "Ho-yo-ho-hum!  Gee!  I'm  all  in! 
Eyes  feel  like  a  couple  of  burnt  holes.  Well, 
gents,  I  move  that  at  the  first  available  spot  we 
go  ashore,  feed  our  faces,  look  at  the  ladies,  and 
perform  our  morning  salute  to  Umanuh — said 
salute  consisting  of  applying  the  right  thumb  to 
the  end  of  the  nose  and  snappily  twiddling  four 
fingers." 

"Motion  carried."  McKay's  set  face  relaxed. 
Then,  his  glance  dropping  to  the  Raposa,  it 
tightened  again.  "Oh,  hullo,  Rand!  How  you 
feeling?" 

The  unconscious  man  was  unconscious  no 
longer.  Moreover,  his  expression  was  not  that 
of  one  just  emerging  from  a  stupor  and  be 
wildered  as  to  his  surroundings.  Though  he 
had  made  no  movement  to  change  his  position, 
his  eyes  indicated  that  he  had  been  awake  for 
some  time.  They  dwelt  steadily  on  McKay,  then 
strayed  past  the  captain  to  Pedro,  Lourengo, 
and  the  first  Mayoruna  crew  following  a  few 


272  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

feet  behind.  His  face  was  inscrutable,  and  he 
spoke  no  word. 

"You're  with  friends.  Understand?  Friends. 
You're  going  home.  These  Indians  are  friends, 
too.  Get  that?  Friends!" 

The  green  eyes  hung  on  McKay's  face  again; 
but,  as  before,  no  answer  came  in  word,  move 
ment,  or  expression. 

"No  good,  Rod,"  said  Knowlton,  who  could 
not  see  the  rescued  man's  face,  but  watched 
McKay's.  "'Fraid  I  knocked  his  last  brains 
down  his  throat.  Dead  from  the  neck  up." 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  He  doesn't  look 
vacant.  See  here,  Rand.  We're  going  to  land 
and  eat!  You  hungry?  Uh-huh.  Thought 
you'd  understand  that.  He's  alive,  Merry. 
Maybe  not  all  here,  but  enough  to  get  us." 

"Good!" 

The  blond  man  turned  his  attention  down 
stream  again.  Soon  he  suggested,  "How  about 
landing  at  that  little  open  space  down  there  at 
the  left,  Lourengo?" 

"Very  good,  senhor.    It  looks  dry." 

The  canoe  swerved  and  floated  down  to  a  spot 
on  the  left  shore  where  bright  light  poured 
down  from  an  opening  in  the  overhead  wall  of 
foliage. 

"Now  look  here,  Rand,"  warned  the  captain. 
"We'll  untie  you.  But  if  you  try  to  duck  into 
the  bush,  now  or  later,  you  get  shot.  Shot! 
Understand?" 


THE  SIREN  OF  WAR  273 

He  tapped  his  pistol,  and  the  gray  eyes  boring 
into  the  green  ones  were  hard  as  chilled  steel. 
For  the  first  time  Rand  responded — a  slow,  short 
nod. 

McKay  cut  the  cord  around  the  wild  man's 
ankles,  then  stepped  ashore  and  held  out  a  hand. 
Rand  arose  quietly,  jumped  to  the  earth  un 
assisted,  lifted  his  bad  foot  and  stared  at  it, 
then  limped  onward  into  a  spot  where  the  sun 
now  shone  bright  and  warm,  and  sat  down  to 
bask. 

"Have  to  fix  that  foot,  I  expect,"  yawned 
Knowlton.  "But  my  eyes  right  now  are  one  solid 
ache,  and  I'm  going  to  rest  them.  Watch  him,  will 
you,  Rod?  Can't  tell  what  he  might  do.  Of 
course  you  wouldn't  shoot  him,  but — " 

"Wouldn't  I?  Not  to  kill,  no.  But  if  he  makes 
one  break  I'll  drill  a  leg  for  him.  He's  going  to 
the  States!" 

"Sure.  I'm  with  you  all  the  way.  Now  beat 
it  and  let  me  repose  myself." 

He  bathed  his  eyes,  then  lay  down  hi  the  canoe 
with  a  wet  handkerchief  across  them.  Pedro 
and  Lourengo  already  were  ashore  and  raiding 
the  slender  packs  for  food.  The  Mayorunas  were 
debarking  and  watching  each  new  boat  as  it 
drew  up,  their  eyes  on  the  women  who  had 
wielded  paddles  with  them  but  whose  faces  they 
now  saw  closely  for  the  first  time.  In  the  shaft  of 
sunlight  McKay  stood  tall  and  forbidding,  rifle 
in  the  crook  of  one  arm,  hat  pulled  low,  guarding 


274  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

the  gaunt  man  at  his  feet  and  viewing  the  landing 
of  the  expedition. 

The  women,  all  young,  numbered  eleven. 
Their  skins  looked  slightly  pallid,  then*  eyes  too 
big  and  black,  their  faces  somewhat  drawn — the 
results  of  close  confinement  and  anxiety;  but  none 
showed  any  sign  of  abuse.  For  commercial  rea 
sons  alone,  Umanuh  had  seen  to  it  that  the 
woman  flesh  he  held  for  sale  should  remain  unin 
jured.  Now,  saved  from  the  slave  trail  or  worse, 
the  girls  showed  no  more  emotion  than  if  on  a 
mere  journey  after  turtles  or  fish.  A  few  spoke 
to  men  whom  they  evidently  knew.  Others 
gathered  in  a  dumb  cluster  and  awaited  whatever 
might  come  next.  With  these  Tucu  talked  in 
gruff  monosyllables. 

When  all  were  ashore,  a  dozen  of  the  men  went 
into  the  jungle  to  hunt.  The  others  sought  fire 
wood,  inspected  weapons,  talked  with  one  an 
other  and  with  the  girls,  who  stared  at  McKay 
and  asked  who  he  was.  A  number  of  the  warriors 
looked  sourly  at  Rand,  whose  face  still  bore  the 
Red  Bone  tribal  streaks  which  now,  to  Mayo- 
rum  minds,  was  the  insignia  of  the  enemy.  All 
knew  he  was  the  man  who  had  been  sought,  all 
saw  that  he  was  not  a  Red  Bone,  but  a  white 
man;  yet  their  mental  reaction  to  the  sight  of  the 
sinister  red  cross  on  the  forehead  and  the  straight 
cheek  lines  was  rabidly  hostile.  McKay,  all-see 
ing,  decided  to  wash  Rand's  face  for  him  before 
journeying  much  farther.  But  Rand  himself 


THE  SIREN  OF  WAR  275 

gave  no  sign  that  he  either  knew  or  cared  what 
the  feeling  of  the  Mayorunas  might  be.  Utterly 
impassive,  he  stared  back  at  them. 

Then  one  of  the  women  pointed  at  him  and  said 
something  to  Tucu.  The  tall  watchdog's  jaw 
set  a  little  harder  as  he  waited  the  effect.  Some 
what  to  his  surprise,  Tucu  and  a  couple  of  the 
other  men  now  gave  Rand  a  more  friendly  look. 
Soon  afterward  Tucu  passed  Lourenco,  who 
talked  with  him  a  few  minutes.  Catching  the 
Brazilian's  eye,  the  captain  motioned  him  nearer 
and  asked  for  any  news. 

"Tucu  says,  Capitao,  that  most  of  these  girls 
are  from  malocas  other  than  that  of  Monitaya, 
though  some  of  Monitaya's  women  also  are  here. 
And  one  of  them  says  this  man,  the  Raposa,  tried 
to  release  them  a  short  time  ago  and  was  nearly 
killed  by  the  Red  Bones  for  it.  They  let  him  live 
only  because  he  is  crazy,  and  they  fear  to  kill  a 
crazy  man." 

"What!   He  tried  to  get  them  clear?" 

"Yes.  He  opened  the  door  and  motioned  for 
them  to  run,  but  before  they  could  escape  they 
were  caught.  He  was  badly  beaten.  You  will 
remember  that  he  was  hiding  behind  that  same 
house  when  Pedro  and  Senhor  Knowlton  saw 
him.  Perhaps  he  meant  to  try  again." 

"Hm!  Crazy  and  wild,  but  a  white  man  for 
all  that.  How  did  you  manage  to  free  the 
women?" 

"Very  simple/'  was  the  cool  answer.      "We 


276  THE' PATHLESS  TRAIL 

stabbed  the  guards,  opened  the  door,  and  came 
back  to  the  creek  with  the  women." 

"Just  like  that,  eh?  And  the  guards  made  no 
resistance,  I  suppose." 

"Not  much,"  grinned  the  bushman.  "They 
were  not  allowed  to." 

"I  see.  Very  simple,  as  you  say.  About  as 
simple  as  our  calm  and  unhurried  departure." 

"Something  like  that,  Capitao.  What  do  you 
desire  for  breakfast — salt  fish  and  coffee,  or  coffee 
and  salt  fish?" 

"A  little  of  everything,  thanks.  Here  comes 
some  monkey  meat,  too." 

The  first  of  the  hunters  had  returned,  bringing 
two  big  red  howlers.  Others  drifted  in  at  inter 
vals,  and  not  one  returned  empty  handed;  for  here 
in  the  virgin  jungle  the  game  was  plentiful,  par 
ticularly  at  this  early  hour.  Soon  the  ah*  was 
heavy  with  the  odor  of  broiling  meat,  and  from 
the  fire  of  the  Brazilians  the  fragrance  of  coffee 
was  wafted  to  the  nostrils  of  the  recumbent 
Knowlton.  He  arose,  swallowing  fast. 

"Gee!  I'm  half  drowned!"  was  his  humorous 
complaint.  "The  smell  of  eats  makes  my  mouth 
water  so  fast  I  have  to  gasp  for  ah".  Must  tickle 
your  nose,  too,  eh,  Rand,  old  top?" 

Rand,  famished  though  he  was,  gave  no  sign 
of  assent  or  of  hunger.  In  fact,  he  gave  no  sign 
of  anything.  Stoically  he  sat,  eyes  front. 

"By  thunder!  the  man's  got  pride!"  the  lieu 
tenant  added,  in  a  lower  tone.  "  Almost  ready  to 


THE  SIREN  OF  WAR  277 

keel  over  from  lack  of  food,  but  stiff  as  a  cigar- 
store  Indian.  Darned  if  I'm  not  beginning  to 
respect  him!" 

Tucu  approached,  carrying  two  big  monkey 
haunches.  One  he  offered  to  McKay,  the  other 
to  Rand.  The  latter's  immobility  vanished  in  a 
flash.  With  a  lightning  grab  he  seized  the  prof 
fered  meat  and  sank  his  teeth  in  it.  As  he  wolfed 
down  the  tough  flesh  the  three  men  standing 
over  exchanged  glances.  Tucu  laid  a  hand  on  his 
stomach  and  pressed  inward,  signifying  that 
the  man  had  long  gone  hungry.  The  others 
nodded.  Then  they  split  the  other  haunch 
between  them  and  fell  to  gnawing. 

Lourengo,  bringing  coffee  to  the  captain,  asked 
Tucu  in  what  direction  the  Monitaya  houses  lay. 
Without  hesitation  the  Indian  pointed  off  to  the 
left.  The  Brazilian  glanced  at  the  creek,  estimat 
ing  its  general  direction  and  rate  of  flow,  then  re 
turned  to  his  fire. 

Offered  coffee,  Rand  took  it  and  sipped  it  with 
evident  relish.  Likewise  he  accepted  a  cigarette, 
which  he  puffed  like  a  man  just  learning  to 
smoke — or  one  who  has  not  smoked  for  years. 
For  his  meat,  his  drink,  and  his  smoke  he  gave  no 
indication  of  gratitude.  His  attitude  was  as  in 
different  and  matter-of-fact  as  if  he  were  one  of 
the  Mayorunas.  When  his  smoke  was  ended  he 
began  inspecting  his  bad  foot. 

"Let's  see  that,"  said  Knowlton,  dropping  on 
one  knee.  "Looks  pretty  sore.  Yes,  it's  more 

19 


278  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

than  sore;  it's  infected.  How'd  you  get  it,  any 
way?" 

No  answer.  Knowlton  probed  his  face  keenly. 
Rand  straightened  out  his  legs,  wriggled  his 
toes,  and  scowled. 

"Queer!"  muttered  the  lieutenant,  rising. 
"He  looks  as  if  he  actually  didn't  know  how  he 
got  that  wound.  You'd  think  he'd  remember 
that  much,  anyhow.  I  sure  am  afraid  his  head 
is  all  scrambled  up." 

He  went  to  the  canoe,  returned  with  his 
meager  medical  kit,  and  knelt  again. 

"Now  listen  here,  Rand.  I  don't  know  how 
well  you  understand  me,  but  I'm  taking  the 
chance.  This  foot  has  to  be  opened  up  and 
cleaned  out.  Otherwise  you're  going  to  have 
serious  trouble  with  it.  I'm  going  to  hurt  you. 
If  you  raise  a  row  you'll  get  an  anesthetic — a 
swift  punch  under  the  ear.  Better  sit  still  and 
make  no  fuss." 

With  which  he  went  to  work.  He  did  a  thor 
ough  job,  and  there  was  no  doubt  that  it  hurt. 
But  Rand  gave  no  trouble,  nor  even  a  sign  of 
pain — except  that  he  dug  his  fingers  into  the 
dirt. 

"Good  boy!"  the  amateur  surgeon  approved, 
when  he  finished.  "You're  a  Spartan — if  you 
happen  to  remember  what  that  is.  Now  we'll 
move  on.  But  before  we  go,  wash  your  face 
good  and  hard.  Get  that  tribe  paint  off.  These 
Indians  with  us  don't  like  it.  You're  no  Indian, 


THE  SIREN  OF  WAR  279 

anyhow;  you're  white,  like  us.  Savvy?  White 
man.  Wash  off  paint!" 

He  rolled  up  his  kit  and  returned  to  the 
i  canoe.  The  Mayorunas,  men  and  women,  were 
entering  their  own  craft.  Rand  sat  motionless 
a  moment,  McKay  and  the  Brazilians  watching 
him  keenly.  Slowly  then  he  got  up  of  his  own 
accord,  limped  to  the  water's  edge,  and  began 
to  scrub  his  face. 

When  he  desisted  the  marks  still  showed,  for 
the  red  dye  clung  stubbornly  to  his  skin;  but 
they  were  fainter  than  before.  The  other  men 
eyed  him  thoughtfully,  none  speaking.  He  set 
tled  himself  in  his  former  place,  curled  up,  and 
began  to  doze. 

"A  queer  fish!"  Pedro  said,  softly.  "Is  he 
crazy  or  not?" 

"Hanged  if  I  know,"  replied  McKay.  "He's 
no  maniac,  anyhow.  I'd  give  real  money  to 
know  just  what  his  mental  condition  is.  But  we 
can  forget  him  for  a  while.  I'm  going  to  let  you 
fellows  sleep  by  turns  now.  I  had  some  sleep  last 
night;  you've  had  none  at  all.  Merry,  your  eyes 
need  rest.  You  curl  up  in  the  bow  and  snooze 
one  hour.  Then  another  man,  and  so  on.  And 
how  about  letting  Tucu  lead  the  parade  again?" 

"Excellent,  Capitao!  I  was  thinking  of  that." 
Lourengo  talked  to  Tucu,  who  swung  out  into 
the  current.  The  boat  of  the  white  men  fol 
lowed,  then  the  others.  At  a  steady  cruising 
speed  the  brigade  surged  on  downstream. 


280  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

Knowlton's  allotted  hour  passed.  Pedro  took 
his  place  and  was  instantly  asleep.  In  turn  he 
was  aroused,  and  Lourengo  laid  down  his  paddle. 
But  just  then  Tucu's  canoe  slowed  and  floated 
in  to  the  left  bank. 

The  others  backed  water  and  looked  at  a 
very  narrow  ravine — almost  a  cleft — in  a  rising 
hillside.  Through  it  led  a  lane  of  water.  From 
the  third  boat,  in  which  were  two  women  of  the 
Monitaya  tribe,  now  came  voices  carrying  infor 
mation  to  the  Indian  leader.  At  once  he  turned 
his  boat  into  the  cleft. 

"This  is  the  connection  we  have  been  seeking," 
Lourengo  explained.  "The  women  say  the  boats 
of  their  captors  came  through  this  crack  in  the  hill. 
At  the  end  we  shall  find  the  creek  of  Monitaya." 

The  women  spoke  truth.  After  threading 
their  way  along  the  weedy  water-path,  which 
was  barely  wide  enough  to  give  passage  for  the 
boats,  they  emerged  at  a  slant  into  another 
stream.  Down  this,  with  the  sure  instinct  for 
direction  of  the  hereditary  jungle-dweller,  Tucu 
turned  his  prow  without  asking  the  women 
whether  to  go  with  or  against  the  current.  Once 
more  on  the  waters  of  their  home  creek,  the 
Mayorunas  quickened  their  strokes  and  howled 
merrily  on  toward  their  malocas. 

Lourengo  took  his  nap  and  resumed  his  place. 
Hour  after  hour  the  fleet  sped  on.  Noon  passed 
without  a  halt,  the  paddlers  munching  at  what 
ever  fragments  remained  from  breakfast.  By 


THE  SIREN  OF  WAR  281 

turns  the  Americans  and  Brazilians  each  got 
another  hour's  sleep,  McKay  consenting  to  relax 
when  all  his  mates  had  rested.  Rand  dozed  and 
awoke  at  intervals,  seeming  content  and  com 
fortable  despite  his  cramped  position. 

By  four  o'clock  even  the  Mayorunas  began 
to  lag  in  their  strokes.  Excluding  the  halt  at 
sunrise,  they  now  had  been  journeying  for  fif 
teen  hours,  in  the  last  nine  of  which  they  had 
covered  many  miles  of  serpentine  water.  The 
heat  of  the  day  and  the  constant  drive  of  the 
paddles  had  taken  their  toll,  and  now  the  body 
of  every  man  fiercely  demanded  more  food. 
McKay,  knowing  that  in  jungle  travel  distance 
is  not  a  matter  of  miles,  but  of  hours,  had  begun 
to  figure  that  the  journey  which  had  taken 
nearly  five  days  of  overland  work  might  be  com 
pleted  that  night  by  the  swiftly  moving  canoes. 
But  now,  recognizing  the  signs  of  exhaustion, 
he  realized  that  without  some  powerful  spur  the 
Indians  would  not  attempt  to  reach  the  home 
malocas  until  the  morrow. 

Then  the  spur  came.  Even  as  Tucu  began 
scanning  the  shores  for  a  good  camp  site,  he  and 
every  other  Mayoruna  suddenly  ceased  paddling 
and  threw  up  his  head.  Faint  and  far,  a  xylo- 
phonic  call  of  beaten  wooden  bars  rapped  across 
the  jungle,  rising  and  falling  in  swift,  regular 
cadence — a  sirenical  flow  and  ebb  of  sound 
waves.  Over  and  over  it  undulated,  rapid, 
incessant,  imperative. 


282  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

A  chorus  of  excited  grunts  broke  from  the 
canoe  brigade.  The  dugout  of  Tucu  leaped  away 
like  a  roweled  horse.  Lourenc.o  and  Pedro 
buried  their  paddles  in  mighty  strokes,  hurling 
their  boat  ahead  to  keep  from  being  run  down 
by  those  behind. 

Lourengo  barked  at  Tucu,  who  flung  back  an 
answer. 

"Paddle  hard,  Capitao!  If  we  do  not  keep 
up  we  shall  be  wrecked.  That  message  is  the 
war  call  of  the  Mayorunas — calling  in  the 
hunters  from  the  forest  to  take  arms  against  an 
enemy.  We  must  race  now  with  these  madmen 
around  us,  or  we  go  under.  Paddle!" 


CHAPTER  XXIII.    STRATEGY 

IN  the  last  light  of  the  fast-fading  day  the 
canoes  darted  from  the  forest  into  the 
clearing  where  stood  the  Monitaya  malocas. 

Long  before  their  arrival  the  siren  call  had 
ceased,  but  there  had  been  no  lessening  of  speed 
by  the  racing  dugouts.  On  the  contrary,  the 
last  long  mile  had  been  covered  in  a  final  des 
perate  spurt,  the  paddles  swinging  in  swift 
unison  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  ferocious 
chant  of  one  syllable :  ' '  Hough !  Hough !  Hough ! ' ' 
This  explosive  cadence  had  echoed  down  the 
stream  ahead  of  them;  and  now,  as  the  panting 
crews  emerged  from  the  jungle,  they  found  them 
selves  flanked  by  a  long  line  of  their  fellow- 
warriors,  bristling  with  drawn  arrows  and  ready 
spear  points.  But  of  the  enemy  whose  presence 
that  great  xylophone  had  betokened  there  was 
no  sign. 

At  sight  of  the  familiar  feather  bonnets  of 
their  own  men  the  tense  Monitayans  let  their 
weapons  slowly  sink.  And  when  Tucu,  leaping 
ashore,  gaspingly  demanded  news  of  the  fight, 
the  line  dissolved  into  a  mob  which  rushed  to 
welcome  him  and  his  mates.  In  the  first  few 
breaths  it  was  learned  that  no  fight  had  yet 
taken  place,  but  that  all  the  warriors  had  been 
brought  in  and  ordered  to  prepare  to  march  at 


284  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

the  next  sunrise;  and  that  the  sudden  war  call 
had  been  sent  out  as  the  result  of  the  arrival  of 
a  stranger. 

Then  the  crowd  parted,  and  through  it  came 
striding  two  men  whose  appearance  caused  the 
white  men  to  erupt  into  hoarse  shouts  of  greeting. 
One,  whose  hard  face  swiftly  relaxed  into  a  half 
smile  of  relief,  was  the  great  chief  himself.  The 
other,  whose  jutting  jaw  suddenly  dropped  and 
whose  blue  eyes  opened  in  incredulity,  was  Tim 
— Tun,  once  more  strong  and  florid  and  aggres 
sive,  gripping  his  rifle,  astounded  at  the  sight  of 
his  comrades  standing  there  alive  and  alert. 
They  soon  learned  why. 

Dropping  his  gun,  he  sprang  at  them  with  an 
inarticulate  roar  of  welcome.  He  wrung  their 
hands,  pounded  their  shoulders,  laughed,  cried, 
swore,  all  at  once.  Then  he  burst  out: 

"Glory  be!  Ye're  alive,  homelier  'n  ever  and 
tough  as  tripe!  We  thought  ye  was  wiped  out 
sure!  We  was  all  set  to  start  in  the  mornin' 
and  pull  them  Red  Bones  to  pieces.  Mebbe 
we'll  do  it  yet,  too.  How'd  ye  break  through? 
Did  ye  kill  Sworn-off  and  his  gang?" 

"Schwandorf?  Gang?  Haven't  seen  any 
body  but  Red  Bones — though  we  sure  saw 
plenty  of  them,"  replied  Knowlton.  "What  are 
you  talking  about?" 

"Then  ye  missed  him  by  about  one  point 
windage.  When'd  ye  leave?  Last  night?  I  bet 
he's  there  by  now.  Gee!  Where'd  ye  git  them 


STRATEGY  285 

girls?  And  who's  this  guy?  Great  gosh!  Is 
he  the  Raposy?  Wai,  for  the  love  o'  Mike— 

"Tim!"  broke  in  McKay.  "What's  all  this 
about?  Now  wait.  This  is  the  Raposa.  These 
girls  are  Mayoruna  women  held  prisoners  by 
the  Red  Bones.  We  got  them  last  night  and  lit 
out  in  the  middle  of  a  general  engagement.  Now 
open  up  with  your  news." 

"Right,  Cap.  We  got  a  visitor  to-day — old 
friend  of  ourn — li'l'  old  Hozy,  the  only  white  guy 
in  that  Peruvian  crew  we  had.  He's  all  dolled  up 
like  an  Injun — shaved  face,  tribe  paint,  and  so  on. 
He  come  through  the  Injun  country  that  way — 
I  dunno  yet  how  he  done  it,  him  bein'  a  Peruvian 
and  all,  but  he  got  through,  and  he  says  Sworn-off 
and  a  whole  gang  of  bad  eggs  is  back  here  to  git 
this  Raposy  guy  and  all  the  girls  they  can  lay 
hands  on.  He  says  Sworn-off's  got  them  Red 
Bones  workin'  for  him,  and  you  fellers  must  be 
massacreed  sure  by  now. 

"Good  thing  I  was  here  when  he  come,  or  he'd 
be  cut  up  and  in  the  stewpot.  Monitaya's  a  good 
skate,  but  he  sure  is  poison  to  anything  Peruvian, 
and  soon  as  Hozy  begun  to  try  to  talk  he  got 
wise  and  dang  near  bumped  him  off.  I  got  him 
to  cool  down  some,  and  he  believes  Hozy's  tellin' 
the  truth,  but  even  at  that  they  got  Hozy  tied  up 
like  a  dog.  Come  look  at  him." 

But  it  was  necessary  to  wait  awhile  for  Tucu 
and  Lourengo  to  tell  Monitaya  the  tale  of  what 
had  taken  place;  for  the  chief  demanded  im- 


286  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

mediate  and  full  details,  and  not  until  he  had 
them  would  he  return  to  his  maloca  and  his 
hammock  throne.  By  that  time  the  little  moon 
was  again  ruler  of  the  sky  and  the  keen  hunger  of 
the  voyagers  had  grown  ravenous.  Followed  by 
the  rescued  and  the  rescuers,  he  then  stalked  into 
the  tribal  house  and  to  his  usual  place,  where  he 
commanded  that  food  be  brought. 

On  the  ground,  directly Jn  front  of  the  chief's 
hammock,  sat  a  gaunt,  painted  Indian  around 
whose  neck  was  a  stout  noose,  the  other  end  of 
the  cord  being  held  by  a  muscular  savage  whose 
skull-smashing  club  was  gripped  loosely  in  his 
other  fist.  As  the  whites  reached  them  the 
noosed  man's  face  cracked  in  a  grin. 

"Greetings,  senores,"  said  the  voice  of  Jose". 
"You  will  pardon  me  for  remaining  seated,  yes? 
The  man  behind  me  is  itching  for  an  excuse  to 
crush  my  head." 

"Jose!"  exclaimed  both  Knowlton  and  McKay. 
Though  Tim  had  said  Jos£  was  "tied  like  a  dog," 
they  had  not  thought  to  find  the  expression 
literal  truth.  The  sight  angered  them  and  they 
turned  to  Lourengo. 

"Tell  Monitaya  we  want  this  man  freed!" 
McKay  snapped.  At  his  peremptory  tone  the 
cannibal  chieftain  looked  oddly  at  him,  and  when 
Lourengo  translated  the  demand — though  in  a 
more  diplomatic  manner — he  scowled.  But  he 
gave  the  clubman  the  word  and  the  rope  was 
lifted  from  the  prisoner's  neck. 


STRATEGY  287 

" Gracias,  amigos,"  he  bowed.  "  If  I  still  remain 
seated,  it  is  because  I  am  very  weary — and  I 
have  not  eaten  since  yesterday." 

His  thin  face  and  his  projecting  ribs  not  only 
corroborated  his  simple  announcement,  but  in 
dicated  that  for  more  than  one  day  his  food  and 
rest  had  been  almost  nil.  Naked,  painted,  minus 
his  fierce  mustache  and  flamboyant  headkerchief , 
he  appeared  a  far  different  man  than  the  dom 
ineering  puntero  of  a  short  time  back.  But  his 
bold  black  eyes,  his  reckless  grin,  and  his 
mocking  tone  proved  him  the  same  swashbuckling 
Jose",  undaunted  by  hunger,  exhaustion,  or  his 
position  as  prisoner  of  man  eaters  whose  enmity 
was  implacable. 

"Well,  you're  going  to  eat  now,  or  we'll  know 
why  not!"  vowed  Knowlton.  "We  understand 
that  you  brought  a  warning  to  Monitaya.  Is  this 
his  way  of  treating  men  who  risk  their  lives  to 
befriend  him?" 

Jose"  shrugged. 

"Once  an  enemy,  always  an  enemy.  That  is 
their  rule.  And  do  not  think  that  I  traveled  the 
bush  and  threw  myself  into  this  snake  heap  from 
love  of  Monitaya.  I  do  not  care  if  he  and  all  his 
race  are  blown  to  hell.  I  am  here  because,  as  I 
once  told  you,  Jose"  Martinez  never  forgets. 
Thank  you,  sefior,  I  will  eat  now  and  talk  later." 

Deftly  he  extracted  a  chunk  of  meat  from  a  clay 
pot  which  had  been  placed  before  Knowlton  and 
in  turn  tendered  to  him.  Monitaya  watched  him 


288  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

eat,  but  gave  no  sign  of  disapproval;  and  the 
Americans,  and  even  the  Brazilians,  made  an 
aggressive  show  of  friendship  toward  the  lone 
Peruvian  for  the  express  benefit  of  the  chief.  They 
knew  well  that  by  their  rescue  of  the  Mayoruna 
women  they  had  made  their  own  position  among 
these  people  virtually  impregnable,  and  that  their 
recognition  of  Jos6  as  a  friend  probably  would  be 
his  only  bulwark.  Wherefore  they  left  no  doubt 
in  the  minds  of  the  watchers  as  to  where  he  stood 
in  their  regard. 

Monitaya,  sitting  in  regal  dignity,  looked 
down  upon  two  parties  of  seven  feasting  with 
famished  speed — the  rescued  women  who  were 
not  members  of  his  own  tribe,  and  the  four 
Americans,  two  Brazilians,  and  one  Peruvian. 
All  the  others  had  scattered — Tucu  and  his  band 
to  theu*  own  family  triangles,  and  the  four  Moni 
taya  girls  to  become  the  nuclei  of  feminine  groups 
which  demanded  intimate  accounts  of  their  cap 
ture  and  treatment  by  the  captors. 

To  the  strange  women  at  his  feet  the  chief  paid 
scant  attention  now,  though  he  meant  to  inter 
rogate  them  after  their  hunger  was  satisfied. 
His  eyes  dwelt  on  Rand,  the  strange  combination 
of  white  man,  Indian,  and  jungle  demon  of  whom 
he  had  heard  so  much  and  on  whose  tanned  skin 
the  red  skeleton  streaks  told  the  tale  of  a  "mind 
out  of  the  skull."  Jos£  and  Tim  stared  in  frank 
curiosity  at  the  dead-alive  newcomer,  whose 
silent  composure  remained  totally  unperturbed. 


STRATEGY  289 

But  the  seven  new  girls,  though  ignored  by  the 
chief  and  his  guests,  were  by  no  means  neglected 
by  the  other  men  of  the  maloca,  being  thoroughly 
stared  at  by  most  of  the  young  bucks — and,  it 
must  be  confessed,  by  a  goodly  proportion  of  the 
married  men  also. 

When  at  length  the  meal  was  finished  Moni- 
taya  commanded  the  girls  to  stand  before  him  and 
narrate  their  experiences.  The  men  lit  smokes, 
Jose*  seizing  the  proffered  cigarette  with  avidity, 
Rand  accepting  his  with  the  usual  odd  delibera 
tion. 

"Wai,  Hozy,  old  feller,  ye're  in  right  with  the 
chief  now/'  asserted  Tim.  "Ye  got  all  our  gang 
with  ye,  and  she's  some  li'l'  old  gang,  I'll  tell  the 
world.  This  feller  Renzo  can  talk  cannibal  so 
good  he  makes  Monitaya  hunt  for  the  dictionary, 
and  he'll  tell  the  chief  in  ten  seconds  what  I  tried 
half  an  hour  to  say  this  afternoon — that  ye 
belong.  I  'ain't  been  here  long  enough  to  learn 
much  o'  their  lingo,  ye  understand.  If  I  could 
spout  it  like  French,  now,  there  wouldn't  been  no 
trouble." 

McKay  and  Knowlton  snickered.  They  knew 
Tim's  French  was  several  degrees  worse  than  the 
usual  American  doughboy's  "frog"  talk. 

"Good  thing  you  couldn't,"  derided  Knowlton. 
"You'd  have  had  Jose"  crucified  before  we  got 
here." 

"That's  right,  gimme  the  razz!  Course,  I  did 
have  a  li'l'  trouble  makin'  some  o'  them  frogs 


290  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

understand,  but  that  was  because  they  was  so 
ignorant  they  didn't  know  their  own  language 
when  they  heard  it  spoke  right.  Anyways,  ye 
got  to  admit  Hozy's  still  with  us  and  sassy  as 
ever,  and  he  wouldn't  been  if  Timmy  Ryan 
hadn't  been  round  to  powwow  for  him." 

"You  have  it  right,  senor,"  Jose*  agreed, 
gravely.  "Without  you  I  should  now  be  dead.  I 
can  speak  the  Mayoruna  tongue  quite  well,  but 
of  what  use  is  it  to  talk  any  language  when  men 
will  not  listen?  It  was  you  and  your  gun  that 
saved  me." 

"Gun?  Good  Lord!  Did  you  pull  a  gun  on 
Monitaya?"  ejaculated  the  lieutenant. 

"Aw,  no.  That  is — I  guess  mebbe  I  did  wave 
me  piece  around  while  I  was  arguin' — I  can  al 
ways  convince  a  guy  better  if  I  got  somethin'  in 
me  hand.  But  I  didn't  git  real  rough." 

"You  are  lucky  to  be  still  alive,  Senhor  Tim," 
said  Lourengo.  "If  Monitaya  were  not  the  man 
he  is  you  would  not  be  alive.  I  am  glad  we  have 
returned." 

"Meanin'  I  need  a  guardeen?  Say,  lookit 
here  now — " 

"As  you  were!"  clipped  McKay.  "We're  all 
wasting  tune.  Jose",  let's  hear  your  report.  I 
thought  you  were  going  to  put  Schwandorf  out 
of  action  for  good?" 

"And  I  am,  Capitan!  That  is  why  I  now  am 
here.  If  I  had  reached  him  immediately  after 
leaving  the  Nunes  place  it  would  have  been  done 


STRATEGY  291 

at  once.  But  a  man  travels  slowly  when  he  is 
alone  and  has  lost  much  blood,  and  before  I  met 
Schwandorf  again  I  had  time  to  think  coolly. 
Then  when  I  saw  him  I  changed  my  plans. 

"Some  days  down  the  river  I  met  him  traveling 
fast  in  a  canoe  paddled  by  hard  men  whom  I 
know.  He  pretended  to  be  greatly  grieved  when 
I  told  him  you  all  were  dead.  Oh  yes,  senores,  I 
told  him  that!  I  was  playing  with  him,  and  it 
amused  me  to  see  how  he  thought  he  was  deceiv 
ing  me  when  I  was  really  fooling  him.  I  said  we 
were  attacked  by  Indians  a  short  way  above  the 
Nunes  place  and  that  I  alone  escaped.  Then  he 
said  something  that  made  me  decide  not  to  kill 
him  for  a  time. 

"He  told  me  he  had  learned  that  this  man 
here — his  name  is  Rand,  yes? — that  the  man 
Rand  was  a  bank  thief  who  had  run  away  from 
North  America,  and  that  a  reward  would  be  paid 
for  him.  He  said  your  real  reason  for  coming 
here  was  that  you  were  detectives  trying  to  earn 
the  reward.  That  is  false,  is  it  not,  senores?" 

"We're  no  detectives.    Rand's  no  thief." 

"Ah,  so  I  thought.  But  Schwandorf  often  tells 
truth  to  conceal  his  lies,  so  that  it  is  sometimes 
hard  to  know  which  is  true  and  which  untrue. 
He  went  on  to  say  he  had  warned  you  not  to 
come  into  this  Indian  country,  and  he  was  sorry 
you  had  been  killed — the  snake — but  since  you 
were  dead  we  might  get  the  money  for  ourselves. 
If  we  succeeded  in  catching  the  man  Rand  and 


292  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

taking  him  out  alive  I  should  get  half  the  reward, 
or  five  hundred  dollars. 

"I  saw  plainly  what  his  plan  was.  I  might  be 
useful  to  him  in  catching  Rand  if  Rand  was  out 
in  the  bush,  for  I  have  traveled  this  country 
alone  more  than  once  and  am  a  far  better  bush- 
man  than  the  German.  But  whether  I  got  Rand 
or  not,  I  never  should  live  to  demand  my  part 
of  the  money.  I  know  too  much  about  Schwan- 
dorf — things  which  I  shall  not  tell  now.  So  when 
the  right  time  should  come,  Jose*  would  meet 
with  a  fatal  accident,  such  as  a  bullet  in  the 
back,  or  a  knife  in  the  throat  while  sleeping. 
But  I  did  not  let  him  know  I  saw  this.  I  pre 
tended  to  fall  in  with  his  plan  like  the  fool  he 
thought  me  to  be. 

"It  was  not  Rand  alone  that  brought  him 
here.  You  have  brought  back  Mayoruna  women 
from  the  Red  Bone  country,  so  you  know  the 
Red  Bones  are  women  stealers.  And  they  steal 
for  Schwandorf.  You  may  believe  me  or  not, 
senores,  but  I  did  not  know  this  until  the  German 
told  me.  Oh  yes,  I  knew  he  dealt  in  women, 
but  of  the  Red  Bone  part  of  his  business  I  was 
ignorant.  As  soon  as  I  learned  it  I  saw  how  I 
could  put  the  illustrious  Senor  Schwandorf  out 
of  action,  as  you  say,  and  at  the  same  time  try- 
to  save  you. 

"I  sharpened  my  knife  to  a  razor  edge,  deserted 
the  German  when  we  reached  the  right  place, 
shaved  with  my  knife,  painted  myself  with  the 


STRATEGY  293 

red  and  black  plant  dyes,  and  came  overland 
to  this  place,  thinking  you  would  be  here  if  still 
alive.  But  you  had  traveled  faster  than  I 
expected  and  had  gone  into  the  Red  Bone 
country,  so  my  chance  to  save  you  seemed  to 
have  passed.  I  could  only  try  to  tell  this  chief 
the  Red  Bones  were  stealers  of  his  women  and 
that  the  German  was  with  them,  knowing  that 
if  he  believed  me  he  would  go  on  the  war  trail 
against  them  and  kill  them  all.  But  if  Senor 
Tim  had  not  befriended  me  I  should  have  died 
too  soon  to  tell  my  tale.  That  is  all,  senores. 
Now  can  you  spare  a  little  more  tobacco?" 

They  could  and  they  promptly  did.  With  a 
new  cigarette  glowing  he  lay  back  and  looked 
quizzically  at  the  women  lined  up  before  Moni- 
taya. 

"How  many  men  has  Schwandorf?"  asked 
McKay. 

"About  twenty  in  all,  Capitan.  There  were 
eight  in  his  crew,  and  they  were  to  meet  a 
dozen  more  at  a  place  on  the  Peruvian  side." 

"All  riflemen?" 

"Si.  He  brought  many  cartridges  for  them. 
They  are  to  raid  tribe  houses  of  these  people." 

"Capture  women  and  run  them  into  Peru?" 

"Si."  Jose*  yawned  as  if  speaking  of  a  deal  in 
salt  fish. 

The  Americans  looked  thoughtfully  around 
the  big  house.  They  saw  that  every  man  near 
them  was  inspecting  some  kind  of  weapon — 


294  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

making  sure  that  bow  cords  were  unfrayed,  that 
arrow  heads  and  spear  points  were  firm,  that 
the  long  blowguns  had  received  no  cast  from  sus 
pension,  and  that  darts  were  absolutely  straight 
and  true.  The  strong  but  cruel  faces  of  the 
warriors  were  stamped  with  malignant  hatred 
of  the  Red  Bone  tribe  and  the  Blackbeard  who 
enslaved  their  women.  The  command  to  pre 
pare  for  a  march  at  dawn  had  not  been  with 
drawn. 

"We'll  be  expected  to  go,  too,  and  I'd  sure  like 
another  crack  at  Umanuh,  not  to  mention 
the  Schwandorf  outfit,"  said  Knowlton,  "but 
we  have  friend  Rand  on  our  hands  now,  and 
our  first  duty  is  to  get  him  out  of  here  safely." 

"Aw,  Looey,  have  a  heart!  I  'ain't  had  no 
action  since  that  liT  scrap  down  the  river,  and 
I  got  to  have  some  excitement  before  we  blow. 
What's  more,  we  can't  beat  it  now,  with  Moni- 
taya  dependin'  on  us  to  fight  on  his  side.  He'd 
git  sore,  and  I  don't  blame  him." 

His  superior  officers  and  the  Brazilians 
frowned.  Every  man  of  them  itched  to  close 
with  the  enemy  in  one  final  decisive  battle. 
Yet— 

"What  '11  we  do  with  Rand?"  Knowlton 
voiced  the  general  thought. 

The  green  eyes  of  the  Raposa  turned  to  him, 
rested  long  on  his,  traveled  deliberately  along 
the  other  faces.  And  then,  to  the  utter  astonish 
ment  of  all,  the  dumb  spoke. 


STRATEGY  295 

"I'll  fight,"  said  Rand. 

Speechless,  the  men  around  him  stared.  His 
face  was  inscrutable  as  ever,  his  eyes  fathomless, 
his  voice  flat  and  toneless.  But  slowly  he 
raised  his  hands  as  if  holding  a  bow;  twitched 
his  right  thumb  and  forefinger  in  the  motion  of 
loosing  a  shaft;  let  the  hands  sink.  His  gaze 
calmly  lifted  from  theirs  and  dwelt  on  the 
farthest  wall.  Not  another  word  did  he  speak. 

"Begorry!  there's  yer  answer!"  triumphed 
Tim.  "He  says,  'Fight!'  And  I  bet  he  can 
sling  a  wicked  bow  and  arrer,  at  that.  Don't  ye 
s'pose  he  wants  a  crack  at  them  Red  Bones, 
after  the  way  they  used  him?" 

"I  think,  comrades,  that  the  man  has  settled 
the  matter  for  us,"  Pedro  seconded.  "None  of 
us  wants  to  run  away;  and,  as  Tim  says,  we  are 
expected  to  help  Monitaya.  We  should  be  con 
sidered  cowards,  worse  than  dogs,  if  we  refused. 
If  we  do  not  fight  the  Red  Bones  we  may  have 
to  fight  these  Mayorunas,  who  now  are  our 
friends.  We  must  stay." 

McKay  nodded,  still  studying  the  expression 
less  countenance  of  Rand. 

"That's  settled,"  he  announced,  crisply. 
"Now,  Lourenc.o,  find  out  Monitaya's  plan  of 
battle." 

The  chief  had  finished  his  examination  of  the 
women  and  Lourengo  promptly  put  the  ques 
tion.  Monitaya  laconically  replied. 

"His  purpose  is  not  changed  by  our  arrival, 


296  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

Capitao.  He  and  his  men  go  to-morrow  to  attack 
and  destroy  the  Red  Bones.  Yfhen  they  reach 
the  town  of  Umanuh  they  will  surround  it,  and 
all  will  rush  in  when  the  chief  gives  his  yell  of 
war." 

"About  what  I  expected.  An  Indian  has  a 
single-track  mind  always.  But  his  strategy  is 
rotten.  Might  be  good  enough  if  he  had  only 
Umanuh  to  deal  with,  but  with  Schwandorf  in 
the  game  it's  different.  Ask  him  how  he  expects 
to  protect  his  women  while  he's  gone." 

"He  says,"  Lourengo  reported,  "that  there 
will  be  no  danger  to  the  women,  because  his 
warriors  will  be  between  the  women  and  their 
enemies  until  those  enemies  are  dead." 

"Very  simple.  So  simple  that  it's  foolish. 
He  doesn't  figure  on  the  other  fellow's  mind  at 
all;  doesn't  realize  that  a  man  like  Schwandorf 
is  bound  to  outguess  him  on  such  straightaway 
tactics  and  isn't  at  all  likely  to  play  into  his 
hands.  But  that's  the  exact  situation.  The 
German  will  outguess  him,  and  it's  up  to  him  to 
outguess  the  German  in  turn.  We'll  do  his 
guessing  for  him. 

"Schwandorf  goes  into  Umanuh's  town,  learns 
what's  happened,  finds  the  Red  Bones  frothing 
at  the  mouth,  and  is  sore  himself.  He  figures 
that  we've  returned  here  with  the  women,  that 
Monitaya's  men  are  blood-mad  against  the  Red 
Bones,  and  that  they'll  do  just  what  they  are 
planning  to  do — march  on  Red  Bone  town  and 


STRATEGY  297 

leave  their  women  unprotected  except  by  the 
old  men,  whose  defensive  power  is  negligible. 
He  is  in  this  country  for  the  express  purpose  of 
getting  girls,  and  with  Monitaya's  men  away 
from  their  malocas  he  has  a  wide-open  chance 
to  make  the  biggest  slave  haul  of  his  life.  So 
he  plans  to  outmaneuver  Monitaya,  attack  this 
place,  capture  all  the  young  women,  allow  the 
Red  Bones  to  massacre  everyone  else  and  burn 
the  houses,  and  then  move  on  without  the  loss 
of  a  man.  After  that  perhaps  he  intends  to  find 
us  and  get  Rand,  or  perhaps  to  attack  other 
Mayoruna  malocas.  At  any  rate,  his  first 
objective  is  this  place.  Am  I  right  so  far?" 

"Dead  right,"  Knowlton  nodded. 

"Very  well.  Now  he  may  figure  that,  having 
found  the  water  connection  between  the  two 
creeks,  the  Mayorunas  will  come  against  Umanuh 
by  the  canoe  route.  Or  he  may  think  they'll 
make  the  overland  trip.  In  either  case,  the  Red 
Bones  have  to  come  through  the  bush,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  they  haven't  boats  enough  to 
carry  all  their  force.  Their  canoes  were  rather 
few  when  we  were  there,  and  we  commandeered 
several  of  them  for  our  own  use.  If  they  decide 
to  come  part  of  the  way  hi  canoes  they'll  have 
to  work  a  come-and-go  transport  service,  bring 
ing  the  fighting  men  down  in  batches  to  some 
rendezvous  from  which  they  must  finish  the 
journey  on  foot.  Chances  are  that  they'll 
disregard  the  canoes  and  all  march  overland  by 


298  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

some  route  that  would  dodge  the  Mayoruna 
line  of  march.  But  in  either  case  they're  coming 
here.  And  it's  here,  in  the  place  where  he's  not 
expected  to  be,  that  Monitaya  should  meet  them. 
Let  him  fortify  himself  and  await  the  assault. 
It  will  come." 

"And  we  shall  be  saved  many  weary  miles 
of  leg  work/'  Jos6  smiled.  "Capitan,  your 
strategy  is  magnificent." 

"Begorry!  it  ain't  so  bad  at  that!"  Tim 
approved.  "Hozy,  me  and  you  will  have  our 
hammicks  slung  out  front  here  when  the  show 
starts  and  do  our  shootin'  prone.  Suits  me  fine. 
Put  it  up  to  the  chief,  Renzo." 

Lourenc.o  did.  Very  carefully  he  explained  it 
all  to  Monitaya,  dwelling  on  the  fact  that 
McKay  himself  was  a  warrior  chieftain  and 
familiar  with  the  fighting  methods  of  such  men 
as  the  atrocious  Blackboard,  and  depicting 
graphically  the  horror  of  an  attack  by  the 
barbarous  Red  Bones  on  the  defenseless  women. 
It  took  him  some  time  to  divert  the  chief's 
stubborn  mind  from  the  original  plan,  but  in 
the  end  he  succeeded. 

To  the  vast  astonishment  and  disappointment 
of  the  vengeful  warriors,  Monitaya  curtly  an 
nounced  that  the  projected  march  would  not 
take  place.  They  stared  as  if  disbelieving  their 
ears,  and  more  than  one  black  look  was  given 
Lourengo.  But  not  a  man  questioned  the 
countermanding  of  orders,  not  a  mutter  waa 


STRATEGY  299 

heard.  The  great  chief  had  spoken,  and  his  word 
was  final. 

Reluctantly  they  laid  aside  the  weapons  on 
which  they  had  been  toiling  with  such  purposeful 
zeal.  The  chief  watched  them  with  a  little  smile 
of  pride — pride  in  their  zest  for  war,  pride  in  their 
unquestioning  acceptance  of  his  dampening  order. 
Then  he  coolly  told  them  to  continue  their  work; 
told  them,  further,  that  the  next  morning  all  the 
streams  were  to  be  poisoned,  new  traps  set,  and 
scouts  stationed  far  out  on  every  trail  to  await 
and  report  the  approach  of  foes.  Instantly  their 
faces  flamed  again  and  from  every  quarter  of 
the  wide  house  rose  an  excited  hum.  They  were 
to  fight,  after  all! 

"Tough  eggs,  these  lads,  if  ye  ask  me,"  yawned 
Tim.  "Bet  ye  we'll  see  a  row  worth  lookin'  at 
when  she  does  break." 

He  forebore  to  mention  the  fact  that  in  rule 
power  their  assailants  would  outnumber  them 
four  to  one. 


CHAPTER  XXIV.    THE  BATTLE  OF  THE 
TRIBES 

THE  next  four  days,  though  they  were  days 
of  waiting,  were  busy  enough  to  satisfy 
the  most  impatient  Mayoruna  warrior. 

Outposts  were  established  on  every  route  by 
which  the  attacking  force  would  be  likely  to  ap 
proach  the  twin  malocas,  the  watchmen  being 
given  the  strictest  commands  not  to  fight,  nor 
even  to  allow  themselves  to  be  seen,  but  to  run 
at  top  speed  with  the  warning. 

Poison  detachments  went  forth  to  collect  the 
ingredients  for  making  deadly  the  water  and  the 
weapons.  Those  detailed  to  the  work  of  polluting 
the  streams  gathered  quantities  of  blue-blossomed, 
short-podded  plants  with  yellow  roots,  the  roots 
being  pulped  and  thrown  into  the  slow  currents, 
which  straightway  became  fatal  to  man  or  beast. 
The  wurali  squad  procured  their  favorite  ma 
terials  and,  in  a  flimsy  shed  well  away  from  the 
houses,  prepared  a  plentiful  supply  of  the 
venomed  brew. 

New  traps  were  set  at  points  where  a  man  or 
two  might  be  picked  off,  though  it  was  realized 
that  these  would  have  little  effect  on  the  final 
result.  And  inside  the  big  houses  men  especially 
skilled  in  the  manufacture  of  arrows  and  darts 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  TRIBES       301 

toiled  swiftly  and  steadily  from  dawn  till  far  into 
the  night. 

These  activities,  however,  were  only  the  usual 
defensive  preparations  made  by  the  warriors 
whenever  they  knew  a  sizable  body  of  foes  was 
somewhere  in  the  vicinity.  It  remained  for  the 
brains  of  the  white  men  to  devise  additional 
features,  simple  enough  in  themselves,  but 
astounding  to  the  savages,  who  were  accustomed 
only  to  the  primitive  battle  tactics  of  their 
ancestors.  For  the  first  time  in  their  lives  the 
cannibals  found  themselves  digging  hi — and  also 
digging  out. 

After  a  survey  of  the  terrain  and  a  catechism  of 
Louren£o  and  Monitaya  as  to  the  usual  methods 
of  attack  and  defense,  the  two  officers  broached 
an  idea  born  of  the  exigencies  of  the  situation. 
As  they  expected,  the  great  chief  was  somewhat 
slow  to  approve  it,  for  it  involved  a  literal  under 
mining  of  the  walls  of  his  fortresses.  But  despite 
the  natural  inflexibility  of  his  mental  processes  he 
was  an  unusually  intelligent  savage,  and  even 
tually  the  patient  reiteration  of  the  advantages 
of  the  scheme  won  him  first  to  assent  and  then 
almost  to  enthusiasm.  Wherefore  the  amazed 
tribesmen  were  set  to  work,  armed  with  crude 
wooden  shovels,  in  digging  holes  under  the  logs 
which  sheltered  them  from  man,  beast,  and  jungle 
demon. 

All  along  the  walls,  at  intervals  marked  by 
McKay  and  Knowlton,  the  tunnels  were  dug.  At 


302  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

the  same  time  another  large  gang  excavated 
before  each  of  the  malocas  a  deep,  curving  trench, 
the  two  long  pits  being  separated  by  a  ten-foot 
space  of  solid  earth  affording  free  passage  from 
the  houses  to  the  creek.  Meanwhile  the  women 
and  the  older  children  were  weaving  flimsy  covers 
from  withes  and  vines.  As  soon  as  a  tunnel  was 
completed  it  was  masked  outside  the  walls  by 
one  of  these  covers,  on  which  a  thin  layer  of  earth 
and  grass  was  laid.  The  two  trenches  were  like 
wise  concealed,  and  the  loose  earth  was  carried 
inside  the  house  and  packed  solidly  against  the 
walls  flanking  the  doors. 

At  sundown  of  the  fourth  day  the  work  was 
ended.  And  so  well  was  it  done  that  when  the 
great  chief,  his  subchiefs,  and  his  foreign  allies 
went  on  a  final  tour  of  inspection  they  could  find 
no  sign  that  the  houses  were  honeycombed  with 
exits  or  that  the  ground  in  front  of  the  little 
entrances  was  not  solid  at  all  points. 

"Rod  and  I  took  the  idea  from  those  pit  traps 
out  on  the  trails,"  Knowlton  explained  for  the 
dozenth  tune.  ' '  Holes  are  covered  to  look  exactly 
like  the  rest  of  the  ground.  Every  man  of  us  has 
to  be  inside  when  the  enemy  arrives,  but  we  have 
to  get  out  quick  when  the  right  time  comes,  so 
we  go  under  the  walls.  And  can't  you  see  those 
brave  women  stealers  go  kerplunk  down  into  the 
trenches?  Oh  boy!" 

Whereat  Lourengo  and  Jose*  smiled  as  if  en 
joying  a  secret  joke.  They  were.  For  they 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  TRIBES       303 

knew  something  of  which  the  Americans  were 
not  aware — that  Monitaya  had  improved  on  the 
trench-trap  idea  of  the  whites  by  studding  the 
bottom  of  those  trenches  with  barbed  araya 
bones  smeared  with  wurali. 

"Yeah,  and  I  figger  them  guys  '11  git  some  jolt 
when  these  houses,  which  'ain't  got  nobody  in  'em 
but  women  and  kids,  begin  to  spit  lead  out  o' 
loopholes  and  spew  screechin'  cannibals  up  out 
o'  the  ground.  Gosh!  I  wouldn't  miss  seein' 
Sworn-off's  face  for  a  keg  o'  beer — and  that's 
sayin'  somethin'." 

Wherein  Tim  expressed  the  general  sentiment. 

So  ended  the  fourth  day.  When  the  fifth  broke 
no  man  showed  himself  outside  the  walls.  Except 
the  few  outposts,  every  male  of  the  Monitaya 
malocas  bided  within,  awaiting  with  growing 
tension  the  arrival  of  the  enemy.  It  was  more 
than  likely,  McKay  had  pointed  out,  that 
the  main  body  of  the  barbarous  force  led  by 
Schwandorf  would  be  preceded  by  a  handful  of 
scouts,  and  quite  possible  that  one  or  more  of 
these  would  slip  past  the  outguards  and  spy  on 
the  tribal  houses.  The  sight  of  even  one  warrior 
would  instantly  apprise  any  such  spy  that  the 
others  must  be  near,  and  the  word  would  go  back 
at  all  speed  to  the  Red  Bones.  Wherefore  the 
only  Monitayans  to  pass  through  the  tiny  door 
ways  that  morning  were  a  few  young  women  sent 
out  as  bait.  These,  naturally,  took  good  care 
to  stay  near  the  entrances. 


304  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

Within,  the  men  waited  at  their  appointed 
places.  Each  tunnel  had  its  quota  of  warriors, 
the  number  being  divided  evenly  to  assure  a 
speedy  and  simultaneous  exit.  The  Americans 
had  elected  to  fight  from  the  maloca  of  the  great 
chief,  while  the  Brazilians  and  Jose*  were  to 
garrison  the  doorway  of  the  other  house  as  soon 
as  the  warning  came.  Rand,  wordless  and  im 
perturbable  as  ever,  now  was  armed  with  a  strong 
bow  and  plenty  of  new  arrows  with  unpoisoned 
heads;  and  he,  of  course,  would  remain  with  his 
own  countrymen.  Thus,  preparations  completed, 
all  settled  themselves  to  the  interminable  hours 
of  waiting. 

Up  on  the  heaped  earth  near  the  doorway, 
which  made  the  walls  practically  bullet-proof 
to  a  height  of  six  feet  and  thus  would  protect 
the  women  and  children,  one  or  more  of  the 
Americans  was  constantly  on  the  lookout  through 
some  inconspicuous  loophole.  Hour  after  hour 
dragged  past,  and  no  unusual  movement  or  sound 
came  to  reward  their  vigilance.  Under  the  glare 
of  the  sun  the  roof  and  walls  grew  hot;  under 
the  silent  strain  of  endless  anticipation  the 
impatience  of  the  fighting  men  became  a  ferment. 
At  length  Pedro,  unable  to  keep  still,  mounted 
to  a  peephole  near  Knowlton.  Scarcely  had  he 
put  his  eye  to  the  opening  when  both  men 
sucked  in  their  breath. 

At  the  edge  of  the  bush  a  man's  head  peered 
from  behind  a  tree.  And  at  the  same  moment  a 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  TRIBES       305 

single  canoe  came  creeping  out  of  the  bush  and 
up  to  the  landing  place.  The  head  behind  the 
tree  was  that  of  a  Red  Bone  spy.  The  two  in 
the  small  canoe  were  Yuara  and  a  companion 
from  the  Suba  tribe. 

' '  Lourengo ! ' '  hoarsely  whispered  Pedro.  ' '  Yu 
ara  comes.  Tell  girls  to  run  to  welcome  him 
and  guide  him  between  the  pits.  A  spy  is  watch 
ing.  If  Yuara  walks  on  the  pits  he  dies  and  our 
trap  is  revealed.  Por  amor  de  Deus,  send  girls 
quickly!" 

Lourengo  acted  instantly.  Seizing  two  young 
women,  he  propelled  them  doorward,  talking 
swiftly  the  while.  Yuara  and  his  mate  were 
already  advancing  innocently  toward  the  few 
girls  outside,  none  of  whom  had  wit  enough  to 
warn  him.  But  the  two  whom  the  Brazilian  had 
grasped  happened  to  be  of  quick  intelligence, 
and  now  they  darted  out.  Before  the  visiting 
pair  could  reach  the  death  trap  the  girls  were 
upon  them,  laughing  as  if  delighted  to  see  a  man 
once  more,  and  deftly  turning  them  aside  to  the 
point  where  two  unobtrusive  stubs  marked  the 
bridge  of  safety. 

Vastly  astonished  by  such  effusive  welcome 
from  two  girls  whom  they  did  not  know,  but  by 
no  means  displeased  thereby,  the  young  warriors 
of  the  Suba  clan  were  piloted  to  the  door  and 
inside.  As  they  disappeared,  the  head  of  the 
spy  also  vanished. 

"Woof!"  muttered  Knowlton,  wiping  sweat 


306  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

from  his  brow.  "That  was  close!  Here's  hoping 
we  have  no  more  visitors." 

Yuara  and  his  companion  meanwhile  were 
being  interrogated  by  both  Lourengo  and  Moni- 
taya,  who  in  turn  enlightened  them  as  to  the 
present  state  of  affairs.  At  the  promise  of  war 
the  faces  of  the  Suba  men  lit  up. 

"Yuara  comes  only  on  a  visit  to  learn  news," 
Lourengo  told  the  rest.  "You  remember  that 
the  day  after  our  return  a  canoe  was  sent  down 
stream  to  a  point  where  the  wooden  bars  could 
be  beaten  and  heard  by  Suba's  men,  and  that  a 
warning  against  the  Red  Bones  and  Schwandorf 
was  given  in  that  way.  Yuara  has  become 
anxious  to  know  more,  so  he  is  here." 

"If  he  sticks  around  he'll  learn  a  lot,"  pre 
dicted  Tun. 

With  no  waste  of  words  or  motion  Yuara 
coolly  attached  himself  and  his  fellow-tribesman 
to  McKay.  Monitaya  and  his  subchiefs  were 
informed  of  the  arrival  and  departure  of  the 
enemy  scout.  The  word  passed  among  the 
warriors,  who,  despite  their  innate  equanimity, 
began  to  grit  their  pointed  teeth  and  quiver 
like  dogs  held  in  leash.  But  another  hour 
passed,  and  yet  another;  and  still  no  word  from 
the  outposts  arrived. 

Suddenly  a  chorus  of  screams  shrilled  from 
the  women  outside.  In  a  frenzy  of  fear  they 
plunged  through  the  doorways.  Blending  with 
their  outcries,  a  hoarse  yell  of  ferocity  rose 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  TRIBES       30t 

raucously  from  the  direction  of  the  creek.  At 
once  a  louder  ululation  burst  forth  at  the  rear 
and  sides  of  the  clearing.  Monitaya's  outguards 
had  failed  and  the  malocas  were  surrounded. 

Loping  from  the  bush  fringing  the  stream 
came  a  score  of  yellow-faced,  shirtless,  barefooted 
brutes  crisscrossed  with  cartridge  belts  and 
gripping  rifles.  At  their  head  loomed  a  burly 
black-whiskered  creature  with  a  revolver  in 
each  hand — the  malignant  Schwandorf  himself. 

Grinning  like  a  pack  of  yellow-fanged  wolves, 
they  doubled  toward  the  low  entrances,  their 
guns  spouting  wantonly  at  the  upper  walls — 
a  ragged  volley  meant  to  terrorize  the  defenseless 
women  within,  none  of  whom  were  to  be  killed 
until  the  handsomest  had  been  cut  out  and  set 
aside  for  slavery.  Some  of  the  heavy  bullets 
bored  through  between  logs  and  thudded  wick 
edly  into  rafters  and  roof  poles  within.  But 
from  the  loopholes  where  the  defending  rifles 
lurked  no  shot  cracked  in  reply. 

The  fiendish  howling  of  the  Red  Bones, 
sweeping  in  from  all  sides  to  the  butchery, 
swelled  into  a  f  eline  screech  that  almost  drowned 
the  roar  of  the  rifles.  Into  the  view  of  the 
watchers  at  the  loopholes  streamed  hideous 
faces  and  naked  brown  bodies  swerving  inward 
from  left  and  right  to  follow  at  the  heels  of  the 
Blackboard  and  his  gunmen.  In  a  few  seconds 
more  the  trotting  line  of  Peruvians  was  backed 
and  flanked  by  a  horde  of  demons  hungering 


308  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

for  the  "taste  of  women  and  babes.     On  they 
came — 

With  the  suddenness  of  a  cataclysm  the  ground 
opened.  Riflemen  vanished  in  midstride.  Sav 
ages  screaming  triumphant  hate  were  gone 
in  the  flick  of  an  eye.  Others,  instinctively  dig 
ging  their  heels  into  the  ground  the  instant 
those  ahead  of  them  disappeared,  were  hurled 
forward  and  down  by  the  momentum  of  the 
following  mass.  Before  the  rush  could  be  checked 
the  trenches  were  packed  with  men  struggling 
in  frenzy  to  get  out,  wounding  themselves  and 
one  another  with  the  deadly  points  of  their  poi 
soned  weapons. 

Of  the  twenty  gunmen  only  four  remained. 
They  were  the  four  immediately  behind  Schwan- 
dorf .  By  blind  chance  the  German  had  set  foot 
on  the  narrow  isthmus  separating  the  twin 
trenches,  saving  himself  and  the  henchmen  at 
his  heels  from  being  engulfed.  Now,  as  the  Red 
Bones  fought  back  from  the  trap  yawning  before 
them,  he  and  the  surviving  Peruvians  stood 
staring  in  momentary  stupefaction  at  the  welter 
of  death  on  their  flanks.  The  malevolent  yells 
of  the  savages  had  been  cut  short  by  the  catas 
trophe,  and  for  the  moment  no  sound  was  heard 
but  the  grunts  and  snarls  of  struggling  men. 

Then  into  the  semisilence  burst  a  mighty 
voice — the  battlefield  voice  of  McKay. 

"Now!    Fire  at  will!" 
I  The  walls  spat  flame  and  lead.    A  scythe  of 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  TRIBES       309 

death  swept  above  the  ground  where  stood 
Schwandorf  and  his  riflemen.  The  Peruvian 
half-breeds  collapsed  and  lay  still.  But  Schwan 
dorf,  shocked  into  activity  by  the  impact  of 
that  first  word,  dodged  death  by  an  infinitesimal 
fraction  of  a  second.  Hurling  himself  back 
ward,  he  struck  the  earth  just  as  the  bullets 
sped  through  the  air  over  him.  With  a  light 
ning  rebound  he  was  up  while  fresh  cartridges 
were  jumping  into  the  rifle  barrels  menacing 
him.  Headlong  he  dived  into  the  mass  of  Red 
Bones  just  behind.  And  the  next  bullets  dart 
ing  after  him  killed  the  savages,  leaving  him 
unharmed. 

The  command  of  McKay  and  the  crack  of 
the  rifles  sent  the  quivering  Mayorunas  into 
the  fight.  In  a  flash  every  masking  tunnel 
cover  was  thrown  bodily  into  the  air.  Before 
the  thunderstruck  Red  Bones  had  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  finding  their  gun-armed 
leaders  annihilated  and  their  mass  being  swept 
by  swift-shooting  rifles  hidden  hi  the  walls, 
they  beheld  a  horde  of  vindictive  foes  erupting 
from  under  those  walls  like  warrior  ants  rushing 
from  subterranean  galleries.  A  blood-chilling 
yell  of  concentrated  fury  smote  their  ears;  a 
hastily  loosed  storm  of  war  arrows  and  short 
throwing-spears  ripped  into  their  flesh;  a  swift- 
running  arc  of  light-skinned  men  swerved  around 
them,  shooting  and  stabbing  as  they  went. 
They,  who  had  so  exultantly  surrounded  the 


310  THE  PATHLESS  TEAIL 

homes  of  women  and  children,  now  were  sur 
rounded  in  turn. 

From  the  doorway  of  Monitaya's  maloca  the 
two  Brazilians  and  Jose*  now  leaped  forth  and, 
firing  as  they  ran,  dashed  to  hold  the  entrance 
of  the  other  big  house.  A  few  arrows  whirred 
around  them  during  their  transit,  but  the 
shafts  were  shot  hurriedly  and  missed.  Mean 
while  the  three  bushmen  were  striking  down 
enemies  at  every  flash  of  their  guns,  firing  with 
the  swift  surety  of  veterans  of  many  a  running 
fight.  They  reached  their  objective  unwounded; 
and  when  they  reached  it  a  fringe  of  dead  foes 
marked  their  passage  along  the  face  of  the  hostile 
array.  Once  within  the  door,  they  rapidly 
reloaded  and  sprayed  lead  along  the  trenches, 
which,  though  now  nearly  full,  had  become  a 
dead-line  past  which  no  Red  Bone  sought  to  go. 

Up  on  the  earth  embankments  within  the 
chief's  house  the  four  Americans  fought  steadily 
on;  the  soldiers  shooting  as  coolly  as  if  engaged 
merely  in  rapid-fire  target  practice,  the  silent 
Rand  methodically  driving  arrows  in  swift  suc 
cession  from  his  wall-slit.  Arrows  thudded 
thickly  into  the  logs  masking  them.  Bullets, 
too,  slammed  into  their  rampart — bullets  from 
the  heavy  revolvers  of  Schwandorf,  who,  ever 
keeping  himself  protected  by  the  bodies  of  his 
cannibal  allies,  shot  with  both  hands  as  the  chance 
came.  And  the  German  could  shoot.  With 
only  the  small  gun  muzzles  as  targets,  he  planted 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  TRIBES       311 

bullets  so  close  as  to  knock  dirt  more  than  once 
into  the  eyes  of  the  riflemen  and  render  them 
momentarily  useless.  After  a  time  he  got  a 
bullet  fair  into  a  loophole. 

Knowlton  grunted  suddenly,  swayed  back, 
toppled,  fell  down  the  parapet.  For  a  few 
seconds  he  lay  still. 

"Looey!"  howled  Tim.  "How  ye  fixed?  Hurt 
bad?" 

The  lieutenant  heaved  himself  into  a  sitting 
position,  stared  around,  clapped  a  hand  to  his 
right  shoulder,  looked  at  the  red  smear  his  palm 
brought  away,  reeled  up,  and  scrambled  back 
to  his  rifle.  Schwandorf's  bullet  had  drilled  clear 
through  the  shoulder,  and  in  falling  his  head  had 
struck  one  of  the  upright  poles.  Without  a  word 
he  got  his  gun  into  action  once  more,  shooting 
now  from  the  left  shoulder.  Tim,  with  a  tight 
grin  of  relief,  devoted  himself  once  more  to  trying 
to  shoot  down  the  dodging  German. 

The  encircling  Mayorunas,  their  first  paroxysm 
of  fury  vented,  now  settled  in  cold  hate  to  their 
work.  On  all  sides  their  clubmen  and  spearmen 
were  bludgeoning  and  stabbing  at  the  close- 
packed  Red  Bones,  leaping  in,  killing,  springing 
back  and  onward  with  terrible  efficiency.  Be 
yond  these  a  thin  but  deadly  line  of  bowmen 
poured  arrows  in  high-looping  curves  over  the 
heads  of  the  hand-to-hand  combatants,  the  shafts 
whizzing  far  up,  turning,  and  plunging  down 
unerringly  into  the  center  of  the  enemy  force. 


312  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

Each  of  those  arrows  could,  and  many  did,  end 
the  lives  of  two  or  three  adversaries  by  gouging 
their  skins  and  letting  the  fearful  wurali  into  their 
blood.  The  blowgun  men  too  were  darting  into 
every  opening,  handling  their  clumsy  weapons 
like  feathers  and  constantly  moving  to  spy  out 
fresh  targets. 

But  the  men  of  Monitaya  were  by  no  means 
escaping  unscathed.  The  Red  Bones,  assailed 
from  every  quarter  and  milling  about  in  hopeless 
disorder,  were  fighting  now  with  desperate 
frenzy.  Their  own  clubbers  and  stabbers  were 
charging  out  and  smashing  skulls  or  piercing  ab 
domens,  their  arrows  rose  in  all  directions  at 
once,  and  some  into  whose  veins  the  wurali  had 
struck  sprang  in  the  last  moments  of  life  on  near 
by  foes  and  bit  like  mad  dogs.  With  a  leader 
and  a  chance  to  form  into  any  sort  of  flying  wedge 
they  might  have  broken  through  with  compara 
tive  ease  and  taken  a  far  heavier  toll.  But  they 
had  no  leader:  for  Umanuh,  whose  name  meant 
"corpse,"  now  was  a  corpse  in  truth,  his  merciless 
brain  oozing  from  a  skull  shattered  by  a  Mayo- 
runa  clubman;  and  Schwandorf  was  very  busy 
looking  out  for  Schwandorf.  So  it  was  every  man 
for  himself,  with  the  devil  rapidly  taking  not 
only  the  hindmost,  but  the  foremost  as  well.  . 
^  Thicker  and  thicker  fell  the  dead.  The 
trenches  now  not  only  were  filled  to  the  level  of 
the  ground,  but  piled  with  a  windrow  of  bullet-torn 
bodies  knocked  down  by  the  ever-spitting  rifles 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  TRIBES       313 

Jose",  Pedro,  and  Lourengo  abandoned  all  shelter 
and  knelt  in  plain  sight  before  the  door  which 
they  had  kept  clear  of  all  close  attack.  Moni- 
taya,  until  now  a  field  general  who  strode  up  and 
down  roaring  commands  and  encouragement, 
suddenly  cast  away  his  regal  role  and,  seizing  a 
club  from  one  of  his  bodyguard,  hurled  himself  on 
the  nearest  Red  Bones — a  raving,  ravening 
demon  of  destructiveness  whose  glaring  eyes 
smote  terror  into  those  fronting  him  and  whose 
weapon  swung  like  the  club  of  Hercules.  His 
bowmen  and  blowgun  men,  at  last  out  of  mis 
siles,  came  charging  in  with  bare  hands  or 
weapons  seized  from  fallen  warriors.  Maneuver 
ing  had  ended.  Henceforth  the  fight  was  a  grap 
pling  mel^e. 

Then  the  gunfire  dwindled  and  died.    The  rule 
cartridges  were  spent. 


CHAPTER   XXV.     THE  PASSING   OF 
SCHWANDORF 

THE  three  soldiers  flung  down  their  hot, 
empty  guns. 

"Nothin'  left  but  the  gats  and  the 
steel,"  rumbled  Tim.  "Me,  I'm  goin'  out  and 
git  some  fresh  air." 

With  which  he  drew  pistol  and  machete, 
leaped  down,  and  lunged  through  the  door. 
McKay  bounded  at  his  heels. 

"Merry!  Rand!  Stay  here!"  he  commanded. 
Then  he  was  outside,  his  pistol  roaring  in  uni 
son  with  Tim's. 

Knowlton  and  Rand  looked  at  each  other. 
The  lieutenant  fumbled  his  pistol  from  its  holster, 
got  it  firmly  hi  his  left  hand,  slid  down  the  em 
bankment,  and  staggered  out.  Rand  coolly 
walked  over  to  Tun's  discarded  gun,  picked  it 
up,  and  followed. 

Over  at  the  other  doorway  the  bushmen  threw 
aside  their  useless  guns  and  drew  their  machetes. 
Jose,  grinning  like  a  death's-head,  whirled  the 
bush  knife  aloft  and  mockingly  dared  the  Red 
Bones  still  fronting  him  to  come  and  take  it  from 
him.  Pedro  and  Lourengo  indulged  in  no  such 
bravado,  but  leaped  like  jaguars  at  their  foes. 
Whereupon  Jose*,  muttering  a  curse  on  them  for 


THE  PASSING  OF  SCHWANDORF     315 

getting  the  jump  on  him,  dashed  forward  with 
furious  abandon. 

Their  pistols  emptied,  the  Americans  also  drew 
machetes — all  except  Rand,  who  had  no  weapon 
but  the  bulletless  rifle — and  waited.  Few  un- 
wounded  Red  Bones  now  were  left;  but  among 
those  few  Schwandorf  still  lived. 

"Schwandorf !"  bellowed  McKay.  "You  yel 
low  cur — you  Schweinhund!  Come  and  fight!" 

"Yeah!"  taunted  Tim.  "The  women  and 
kids  are  inside.  Come  and  git  'em!" 

Schwandorf  came.  He  came  not  because  he 
wanted  to,  however,  for  his  guns,  too,  were 
empty.  He  came  because  the  Red  Bones,  sens 
ing  the  challenge  and  loathing  the  Blackbeard 
who  had  shielded  himself  so  long  among  them, 
threw  him  out  bodily.  They  had  no  tune  to 
stand  and  watch  what  might  happen  to  him, 
but  they  took  time  to  cast  him  out  where  he 
must  stand  on  his  own  legs.  Then,  snarling,  they 
resumed  their  now  hopeless  battle  against  their 
encompassing  executioners. 

For  a  moment  the  German  stood  glowering  at 
McKay.  Then,  with  a  dramatic  gesture,  he 
threw  aside  his  useless  revolvers  and  advanced 
empty  handed. 

"Man  to  man?"  he  growled. 

"Man  to  man!"  echoed  McKay,  passing  his 
pistol  to  Tim  and  sheathing  his  machete.  Fists 
clenched,  he  sprang  forward. 

Schwandorf    halted.      His    hands    remained 


316  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

empty — until  the  captain  was  within  eight  feet 
of  him.  Then  he  leaped  back,  his  machete 
jumped  into  his  fist,  and  its  point  stabbed  for 
his  antagonist's  abdomen. 

An  instantaneous  side-step  and  twist  of  the 
body  saved  the  captain  from  evisceration.  The 
blade  ripped  through  breeches  and  shirt  and 
scraped  the  skin.  As  Schwandorf  yanked  it 
back  for  another  thrust  McKay  struck  it  away 
with  one  hand  and,  without  drawing  his  own 
steel,  jumped  again  at  his  assailant.  An  instant 
later  the  two  blackboards  were  clenched  in  a 
death  grapple. 

Schwandorf  found  his  long  knife  useless  and 
dropped  it.  He  strove  for  a  back-breaking  hold, 
but  found  it  blocked.  McKay,  though  an  indif 
ferent  swordsman,  was  a  formidable  wrestler 
and  fist  fighter,  and  the  German's  advantage 
in  weight  was  more  than  offset  by  the  Ameri 
can's  quickness  and  wiry  strength.  Science  was 
thrown  to  the  winds.  A  heaving,  choking, 
wrenching  man -fight  it  was,  stumbling  over 
bodies,  each  straining  every  muscle,  trying  every 
hold  to  twist  and  break  the  other  and  batter 
him  down  to  death. 

Smashing  fist  blows  brought  blood  dripping 
from  their  faces.  Bone-wringing  grips  forced 
gasps  from  their  lungs  and  superhuman  spasms 
of  resistance  from  their  outraged  nerve  centers. 
They  fell  across  a  corpse,  rolled  on  the  ground, 
throttled,  kicked,  struck,  and  tore.  Finally,  hi 


THE  PASSING  OF  SCHWANDORF     317 

a  furious  outburst  of  energy,  the  American 
fought  his  enemy  down  under  him,  clamped  his 
body  with  iron  knees,  and  crashed  a  terrific 
punch  squarely  between  the  German's  glaring 
eyes.  Schwandorf  went  limp. 

At  that  instant  a  backward  eddy  of  the  battle 
surged  over  the  pair.  The  maniacal  Red  Bones, 
fighting  to  the  last  bitter  drop  of  doom,  found 
two  white  men  under  their  feet.  Screeching, 
snarling,  they  fell  on  them  like  wild  beasts,  tearing 
with  tooth  and  nail.  Their  arrows  were  gone, 
their  darts  exhausted,  and  no  spearman  was 
among  them;  they  fought  with  nature's  weapons, 
while  above  them  one  lone  clubman  struggled 
to  swing  down  his  lethal  bludgeon  without 
killing  his  fellows. 

McKay,  wrenching  his  machete  loose  and 
gripping  it  with  both  hands,  got  its  point  upward 
and  jabbed  blindly  at  the  weight  of  flesh  bearing 
him  down.  Faintly  to  his  ears  came  yells  of 
rage  and  the  impact  of  blows — the  battle  roars 
of  Tim  and  Knowlton,  who  with  their  machetes 
were  cleaving  a  way  to  their  captain.  But  the 
beastly  demons  over  him  still  crushed  him  down 
on  Schwandorf,  smothering  him  under  the  bur 
den  of  bodies  dead  and  alive.  His  stabs  grew 
weak.  Exhaustion  and  lack  of  air  were  killing 
him  more  surely  than  the  savages. 

Pedro,  Lourengo,  Jose"  and  the  inexplicable 
Rand  came  slashing  and  clubbing  a  path  of  their 
own  to  the  beleaguered  Scot — the  Brazilians 


318  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

cutting  straight  ahead  with  deadly  surety,  the 
painted  Peruvian  chopping  and  thrusting  with 
a  fixed  grin,  Rand  swinging  the  gun  butt  down 
on  head  after  head.  From  still  another  direction 
Yuara  and  his  satellite  came  boring  in  with 
spears  snatched  from  dead  hands.  The  three 
rescue  parties  reached  the  squirming  heap  at 
almost  the  same  moment.  But  Yuara  was  the 
one  whose  arrival  counted  most. 

In  one  last  convulsive  struggle  McKay  heaved 
himself  up  until  he  was  once  more  on  his  knees. 
His  head  came  out  of  the  welter,  his  mouth 
wide  and  gulping  for  breath.  The  lone  clubman 
grunted,  swung  his  weapon  high,  and  with  all 
the  power  of  his  muscular  body  drove  it  down 
at  that  upturned,  unprotected  face. 

With  a  mighty  plunge  Yuara  threw  himself 
over  the  captain.  His  spear  sank  into  the 
stomach  of  the  clubman.  But  the  heavy  wooden 
war  hammer  fell  with  crushing  force.  As  the 
Red  Bone  collapsed  with  the  spear  head  buried 
in  his  middle,  his  slayer  also  dropped  under  that 
terrible  stroke  with  head  mangled  beyond  recog 
nition. 

Yuara,  son  of  Rana,  warrior  of  Suba,  who 
owed  his  life  to  McKay's  rough  surgery,  had 
paid  his  debt. 

Under  the  impact  of  his  body  McKay  also 
slumped  forward,  senseless. 

Over  them  now  burst  the  bloodiest  berserk 
battle  of  that  bloody  day.  The  soldiers,  the 


THE  PASSING  OF  SCHWANDORF     319 

bushmen,  and  the  reclaimed  Raposa,  already 
smeared  from  head  to  foot  with  red  stains  from 
their  own  veins  and  those  of  foemen,  went  stark 
mad.  Before  their  united  ferocity  the  men  of 
Umanuh  dropped  as  if  rolled  under  by  an  inex 
orable  machine  of  war.  Backward  they  reeled, 
striving  now  to  escape  the  red  wall  of  cold  steel 
surging  at  them — only  to  fall  under  a  fresh 
attack  of  ravening  Mayorunas  who  came  pouring 
in  upon  them  from  the  sides.  The  last  of  the 
group  lurched  headless  to  the  ground  under  a 
decapitating  side-swing  from  the  awful  club  of 
Monitaya  himself. 

Then  Knowlton,  his  lifeblood  still  draining 
slowly  but  surely  away  through  his  wounded 
shoulder,  pitched  on  his  face  and  was  still. 

"Back!"  gasped  Tun.  "Git  looey  and  cap 
out  o'  this!  Here,  you  Raposy!  Lend  a  hand!" 

The  Raposa,  his  green  eyes  ablaze  and  his 
obdurate  calmness  totally  gone,  glared  around 
as  if  seeking  one  more  Red  Bone  to  kill.  Then, 
as  Tun  heaved  the  lieutenant  across  his  shoul 
ders  and  went  lunging  across  contorted  bodies 
toward  the  malocas,  he  ran  back  to  the  heap 
where  McKay  lay  and  dug  him  clear.  Lourengo 
aided  him  in  lifting  the  captain,  and  they  bore 
him  off  after  Knowlton. 

Pedro  and  Jose  shoved  the  other  bodies  aside 
until  they  uncovered  the  prone  figure  of  Schwan- 
dorf — a  ghastly  form  dyed  from  hair  to  heels 
with  the  blood  of  the  cannibals  whom  he  had  led 


320  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

there.  To  all  appearances  he  was  dead.  Yet 
the  Brazilian  and  the  Peruvian  looked  keenly 
at  him,  then  at  each  other. 

"There  is  a  saying,  is  there  not,  that  the  devil 
takes  care  of  his  own?"  grinned  Jose.  "It  would 
be  sad  if  this  man  should  yet  live  and  escape. 
See!  What  is  that  tall  Red  Bone  doing  over 
yonder?" 

Pedro  followed  his  pointing  finger.  He  saw 
no  such  Red  Bone  as  Jos6  had  mentioned.  But 
when  he  looked  back  at  Schwandorf  he  noticed 
something  that  made  him  glance  quickly  at 
Jose  once  more. 

"Ah  yes,  Senor  Schwandorf  is  truly  dead," 
the  Peruvian  added,  wiping  his  machete  carelessly 
on  one  bare  leg.  "Whether  or  not  the  devil 
takes  care  of  his  own,  as  I  was  saying,  there  is 
no  doubt  that  el  Aleman  now  is  with  the  devil. 
So,  since  we  can  do  nothing  for  him,  let  us  look 
after  the  two  North  American  senores." 

Pedro,  with  a  grim  smile,  turned  with  him 
toward  the  tribal  houses.  There  was  nothing 
else  for  them  to  do,  for  the  Mayorunas  now  were 
dispatching  the  last  survivors  of  the  attacking 
force.  Before  the  pair  entered  the  low  doorway 
a  long,  triumphant  yell  burst  from  the  hoarse 
throats  of  the  men  of  Monitaya.  Of  all  the  Red 
Bones  who  had  swept  in  such  ghoulish  glee  into 
that  clearing  not  one  now  remained  alive. 

At  that  shout  of  victory  and  the  entrance 
of  the  men  to  whose  precautions  and  prowess 


THE  PASSING  OF  SCHWANDORF     321 

they  owed  so  much,  the  women  flocked  again 
into  the  center  of  the  maloca  and  the  children 
dived  out  through  the  tunnels  to  behold  the 
battlefield.  Though  bullets  and  arrows  had 
come  through  the  doorway,  those  inside  had 
escaped  all  injury  by  hugging  the  protective 
earth  embankment  or  taking  refuge  in  the  vacant 
shafts  under  the  walls.  Now  the  older  women, 
experienced  in  treatment  of  wounds,  busied 
themselves  with  the  white  warriors,  while  the 
younger  ones  fetched  water  and  pieces  of  isca 
—a  natural  styptic  made  by  ants — or  made  up 
pads  of  poultices  of  healing  herbs. 

Tim,  who  had  expected  to  play  surgeon  with 
his  crude  knowledge  of  first  aid,  found  himself 
not  only  relieved  of  his  job,  but  being  bathed 
and  plastered  with  the  others.  He,  Jose",  Pedro, 
Lourengo,  and  even  Rand  were  gashed  by  thrusts 
from  broken  spear  hafts,  bleeding  from  open 
bites,  ripped  by  glancing  sweeps  of  tooth-set 
clubs,  bruised  by  fierce  blows — minor  injuries 
all,  but  such  as  might  easily  have  resulted  in 
blood  poisoning  unless  given  prompt  attention. 
Later  on  they  were  to  be  thankful  for  those 
ministrations,  but  now  they  tolerated  them 
only  because  they  could  do  nothing  for  the 
captain  and  the  lieutenant. 

McKay  and  Knowlton  were  under  the  direct 
and  capable  treatment  of  the  wives  of  the  great 
chief.  Of  the  two  McKay  looked  by  far  the 
worse,  but  actually  was  in  much  better  condi- 


322  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

tion.  From  the  waist  up  he  was  clawed,  bitten, 
and  bruised  so  badly  that  he  was  a  fearsome 
spectacle;  his  left  arm  was  dislocated,  three  fin 
gers  of  his  right  hand  were  broken,  and  his  muscles 
were  so  wrenched  that  for  a  week  afterward  he 
moved  like  a  cripple;  but  his  present  uncon 
sciousness  was  largely  due  to  exhaustion  and 
partial  asphyxiation.  Knowlton,  whose  skin 
was  comparatively  unmarked,  but  whose  veins 
had  continued  to  pour  vital  fluid  from  his  gaping 
bullet  wound  during  his  stubborn  fight,  now  was 
badly  weakened.  But  whatever  could  be  done 
for  him  was  being  done,  and  the  others  could 
only  stand  by. 

The  women  not  engaged  in  caring  for  the 
fighting  visitors  soon  found  themselves  busy 
with  their  own  male  relatives,  who  came  stum 
bling  hi  by  themselves  or  were  carried  by  others. 
The  Red  Bones,  though  finally  annihilated,  had 
made  then*  mark  in  the  Mayoruna  tribe.  At 
that  moment  thirty-six  of  Monitaya's  warriors 
lay  dead  among  the  bodies  of  their  enemies, 
and  before  the  next  sunrise  several  more  passed 
on  to  join  the  spirits  of  their  comrades  in  arms. 
Yet  all  who  survived,  though  some  were  crippled 
for  life,  thought  only  of  the  victory  and  gloated 
on  their  scars  of  combat.  As  for  those  who  had 
fallen,  they  were  dead,  had  died  as  Mayorunas 
should,  and  so  needed  no  sympathy  or  regret. 
Even  now  their  bodies  were  being  collected  for 
immediate  transportation  into  the  forest,  where, 


THE  PASSING  OF  SCHWANDORF     323 

in  accordance  with  the  tribal  custom,  they  would 
be  burned. 

Some  of  the  men  who  brought  in  the  wounded 
men  continued  on  to  the  bushmen  and,  in  signifi 
cant  sign  manual,  requested  a  loan  of  their 
machetes.  Having  received  them,  they  hastened 
out  to  join  those  who,  equipped  with  hardwood 
knives,  were  gathering  the  sinister  trophies  of 
triumph  before  heaving  the  dead  Red  Bones  out 
to  the  waiting  vultures. 

"Urrrgh!"  growled  Tun.  "'Twas  a  lovely 
scrap,  but  I  wisht  I  was  somewheres  else,  now 
it's  over.  While  ye  was  away  they  brought  in 
the  fists  and  feet  o'  some  guy  they  caught  in  a 
trap—" 

"We  know,"  nodded  Pedro. 

"Yeah.  Wai,  I  s'pose  we  got  to  look  pleasant. 
Dog  eat  dog,  as  the  feller  says.  Long  as  some 
body  has  to  git  et,  I'm  glad  it  ain't  us."  Where 
with  he  turned  to  the  Raposa  and  changed  the 
subject.  "Raposy,  old  sport,  ye  sure  done  some 
good  work,  for  a  crazy  guy.  I'll  tell  the  world 
ye  cracked  heads  like  a  Bowery  cop  full  o'  boot 
leg  booze." 

The  Raposa's  geeen  eyes  glimmered.  In  fact, 
they  almost  twinkled.  And  for  the  second  tune 
the  wild  man  spoke. 

"I  am  not  crazy." 

"Huh?  My  gosh!  Ye  spoke  four  whole 
words!  That  makes  six  in  a  week.  Be  careful, 
feller,  or  ye'll  strain  yerself.  And  as  far  's  bein' 


324 

crazy's  concerned,  don't  let  it  worry  ye  none. 
We're  all  crazy,  too,  or  we  wouldn't  be  here." 

Under  cover  of  his  banter  the  veteran  eyed 
the  other  sharply.  As  he  turned  his  gaze  aside 
to  the  moving  figures  about  him  he  thought: 
"Begorry!  he  don't  look  like  a  nut,  at  that. 
Mebbe  somethin's  unscrambled  his  brains  again. 
Here's  hopin',  anyways." 

The  big  tribe  house  now  was  full  of  life.  Small 
groups  of  warriors,  their  hurts  dressed  with 
primitive  poultices,  gathered  around  the  ham 
mocks  of  those  more  seriously  injured  and  dis 
cussed  the  battle.  Others  came  in  bearing  arm- 
fuls  of  severed  Red  Bone  hands  and  feet,  which 
were  distributed  among  the  family  triangles. 
The  women,  their  remedial  work  done,  now 
turned  to  the  clay  cooking  vessels,  freshened  the 
fires,  stripped  the  flesh  of  their  enemies  from  the 
bones,  and  set  it  to  boil.  Among  the  hammocks 
moved  the  subchiefs,  their  eyes  still  shining  with 
the  light  of  battle,  examining  the  wounded  men 
and  glancing  at  the  preparations  for  the  dire 
feast  to  come. 

Over  all  drifted  a  steadily  thickening  smoke 
which  rolled  up  and  out  through  the  vent  in  the 
peak  of  the  roof,  where  the  setting  sun  smote 
it  with  rays  of  gleaming  red.  Around  the 
maloca  gleamed  the  red  light  of  the  cooking 
fires  among  whose  burning  fagots  bubbled  the 
red  pots  and  pans.  Red  men  and  women  passing 
about  hi  a  crimson  setting — the  scene  formed  a 


THE  PASSING  OF  SCHWANDORF     325 

fitting  end  to  the  reddest  day  in  the  unwritten 
records  of  the  tribe,  who  since  noon  had  proved 
themselves  worthy  champions  of  the  ancient  god 
whose  name  they  never  had  heard,  but  who 
nevertheless  ruled  their  lives — the  red  god  Mars. 

Monitaya  himself,  head  high  and  chest  swelling 
with  pride,  now  came  striding  lithely  in,  followed 
by  a  young  warrior  carrying  something.  He 
stopped  between  the  hammocks  of  McKay  and 
Knowlton,  studied  their  faces  gravely,  listened 
as  his  wives  told  of  what  had  been  done.  At 
almost  the  same  moment  the  eyes  of  the  pair 
slowly  opened  and  stared  up  at  him. 

The  face  of  the  great  chief  melted  in  one  of 
its  transforming  smiles.  The  captain  and  the 
lieutenant  grinned  pluckily  back.  With  a  nod 
of  silent  comradeship  the  big  savage  turned  to 
his  own  hammock  and  sat  down.  Two  of  his 
women  built  up  the  royal  fire  and  fell  to  work 
on  the  things  handed  over  by  the  young  warrior. 
Tun  and  his  mates  took  one  squint  at  what  they 
were  doing.  Then  they  moved  between  the  fire 
and  the  two  officers,  blocking  the  view. 

"'Bout  time  ye  woke  up  and  listened  to  the 
birdies,"  Tim  chaffed.  "Fight's  over,  and  we 
been  hangin'  round  waitin'  for  ye  to  quit  snorin' 
so's  we  could  hear  ourselves  think.  Lay  still, 
now!  Ye're  all  plastered  up  nice  and  comfy — 
and  don't  preach  to  me  no  more  about  the  girls. 
Ye  had  every  dang  one  o'  the  big  chief's  wives 
hangin'  over  ye  and  kissin'  ye  so  hard  it  sounded 


328  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

like  a  machine  gun.  Ain't  that  right,  fellers? 
Me,  I'm  so  jealous  I  could  bite  the  both  of  ye." 

"Schwandorf  dead?"  hoarsely  queried  McKay. 

"Huh?  Oh,  him?  Sure.  Ye  fixed  him  right, 
Cap.  The  pretty  liT  blackbirds  has  flew  away 
with  him  by  now.  Say,  ye  mind  that  feller 
Yuarry?  Know  what  he  done?  Wai — " 

And  while  he  talked,  behind  his  back  the 
wives  of  Monitaya  completed  their  task  and 
dropped  into  the  great  chief's  stewpot  the  flesh 
of  the  black-bearded  slaver  and  slayer  who  would 
menace  them  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XXVI.  PARTNERS 

SEVEN  men  squatted  around  a  camp  fire  on 
the  river  bank.  Beyond  them,  half  revealed 
by  the  flickering  light  of  the  flames,  rose 
the  poles  of  a  tambo  wherein  empty  hammocks 
hung  waiting.  At  the  edge  of  the  water  lay  two 
canoes. 

Five  of  the  men  wore  the  habiliments  of 
civilized  beings,  though  their  shirts  and  breeches 
were  so  tattered  and  stained  that  a  civilized 
community  would  have  looked  askance  at  them. 
The  other  two  were  nude  as  savages,  but  their 
beards  and  tanned  skins  were  those  of  white 
men.  Beards  of  varying  length  seemed,  in  fact, 
to  be  the  fashion,  for  everyone  present  wore 
one,  and  all  but  two  were  very  dark.  Of  the 
odd  pair,  one's  thin  face  was  partly  covered  by 
stubby,  blond  hair,  while  the  other's  jaw  was 
masked  by  a  growth  of  unmistakable  red. 

Lifting  their  cigarettes,  the  blond  man  and 
a  tall,  eagle-faced  comrade  moved  their  arms 
stiffly,  as  if  still  hampered  by  injuries.  Newly 
healed  scars  showed  on  the  skins  of  the  rest. 

"Injuns  are  a  funny  lot,"  declared  the  red- 
haired  one.  "There's  Monitaya,  now.  Keeps 
us  a  couple  weeks,  doctors  us  half  to  death, 
feeds  us  till  we  gag,  gives  us  new  canoes,  sends 
a  platoon  o'  hard  guys  with  us  to  see  that  we 


328  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

git  to  the  river  safe — and  don't  even  say  good-by. 
No  handshake,  no  'Good  luck,  fellers' — jest  a 
grin  like  we  was  goin'  to  walk  round  the  house 
and  come  right  back.  And  the  lads  that  come 
out  with  us  done  the  same — turned  round  and 
quit  us  without  a  word.  I  bet  if  we  lived  amongst 
'em  long  we'd  git  to  be  dummies,  too." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  For  no 
apparent  reason  all  glanced  at  one  of  the  naked 
men,  on  whose  skin  faintly  showed  reddish 
streaks. 

"You  would,"  he  said. 

"Huh!     Gee!   Rand's   talkin'   again!     First 
tune  since  we  licked  them  Red  Boneheads.    Two 
whole  words.    Go  easy,  feller,  easy!" 
?    "  I  will  be  easy.    But  it's  tune  I  talked.    lam 
not  dumb.    I  am  not  crazy." 

The  green-eyed  man  spoke  slowly,  as  if  form 
ing  each  word  in  his  mind  before  pronouncing  it. 
The  rest  squatted  with  eyes  riveted  on  his  face. 

"I  have  not  talked  before  because  I  had  to 
find  myself.  I  had  to  hear  English  spoken  and 
become  used  to  it.  I  had  to  put  things  together 
in  my  mind.  Even  now  some  things  are  not 
clear.  But  I  can  talk  and  make  sense  of  my 
talk.  I  will  tell  what  I  can  remember.  First 
tell  me  one  thing.  McKay,  am  I  a  murderer?" 

"A  murderer?  You?  If  you  are  we  never 
heard  of  it." 

"A  man  named  Schmidt.  Gustav  Schmidt. 
German  merchant  at  Manaos." 


PARTNERS  329 

"Gustav~  Schmidt?  Piggy  little  runt,  bald 
and  fat,  with  a  scar  across  his  chin?" 

"Yes.'? 

"He's  dead,  but  you  didn't  kill  him.  He  was 
shot  a  little  while  ago  by  a  young  Brazilian  for 
getting  too  intimate  with  the  young  fellow's  wife. 
We  heard  about  it  while  we  were  in  Manaos,  and 
saw  his  picture.  What  about  him?" 

"I  thought  I  killed  him.  I  struck  him  with  a 
bottle.  I  was  told  he  was  dead.  How  long  have 
I  been  here?" 

"You  left  the  States  in  1915.    It  is  now  1920." 

"Five  years?  My  God!  What  has  happened 
in  that  time?  Is  my  mother  well?" 

The  others  looked  pityingly  at  him.  Slowly 
Knowlton  spoke. 

"Your  mother  died  two  years  ago  from  heart 
trouble.  Your  uncle,  Philip  Dawson,  also  is 
dead." 

Rand's  jaw  set.  The  others  shifted  their 
gaze  and  busied  themselves  with  making  new 
cigarettes,  spending  much  tune  over  the  simple 
task. 

"Poor  mother!"  Rand  said,  huskily.  "Uncle 
Phil — he  was  a  good  old  scout.  And  I  was  here 
— buried  alive — only  half  alive!  My  head — 
Tell  me,  what  happened  on  the  night  before  you 
dressed  my  lame  foot?  I  remember  clearly 
everything  from  the  time  I  woke  in  the  canoe 
before  daylight  that  morning.  Before  that 
there  is  a  blur." 


330  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

Knowlton  sketched  the  events  of  that  night, 
and  told  also  of  the  glimpse  which  he  and  Pedro 
had  caught  of  the  "wild  man"  while  waiting 
outside  the  house  of  the  Red  Bone  chief.  A 
flash  lit  up  Rand's  face. 

"So  that  is  how  I  got  my  sore  head.  You 
struck  me  with  your  rifle  butt.  That  explains 
much.  Before  I  became  a  wild  beast  I  was  shot 
in  the  head.  The  bullet  did  not  go  through  the 
skull.  It  struck  me  a  terrible  blow  on  the 
crown.  When  I  recovered  consciousness  I  was 
not  myself.  I  have  never  been  the  same 
until—" 

"Gee  cripes!"  exploded  Tim.  "That's  it. 
I  seen  that  same  thing  up  home.  Bug  Sullivan, 
it  was.  When  he  was  a  li'l'  feller  he  tumbled 
downstairs  and  hit  his  head,  and  for  'most  ten 
years  he  was  foolish.  Then  a  brick  fell  off  a 
buildin'  and  landed  on  his  bean.  It  knocked  him 
for  a  gool,  but  when  he  come  out  of  it  he  was 
bright  as  a  new  dime.  Looey,  when  ye  busted 
Rand  with  yer  gun  ye  jarred  some  thin'  loose 
inside,  and  now  he's  good  as  any  of  us." 

"By  George!  You're  right!"  cried  the  lieu 
tenant.  "Things  like  that  do  happen.  I've 
heard  of  them.  Haven't  you,  Rod?" 

McKay  nodded. 

"That  is  it,"  affirmed  the  Raposa.  "I  have 
not  been  insane.  But  much  was  gone  from  me. 
My  mind  was  a  house  full  of  closed  doors  which 
I  could  not  open.  I  knew  who  I  was  and  why 


PARTNERS  331 

I  was  here,  but  I  knew  also  that  something  had 
happened  to  my  brain;  knew  I  was  defective; 
believed  I  was  wanted  for  murder.  So  I  could 
not  go  out.  I  could  only  stay  here,  prowl  the 
jungle,  live  the  jungle  life. 

"Now  that  the  closed  doors  have  opened 
again,  others  have  swung  shut.  I  cannot  remem 
ber  much  of  my  wild-beast  life  here.  Some 
things  are  clear.  Too  clear.  Torturings  and 
horrible  feasts.  Perhaps  I  should  be  grateful 
that  some  things  are  forgotten. 

"But  now  my  life  up  to  the  time  I  was  shot 
is  plain  again.  I  talked  with  a  man  who  had 
traveled  the  Amazon  and  the  Andes.  I  never 
had  seen  either,  and  I  was  ripe  for  something 
new.  A  steamer  was  just  sailing  south,  and  I 
got  aboard  in  a'  hurry.  No  baggage  but  a  suit 
case  and  five  thousand  dollars.  I  had  traveled 
a  good  deal — Europe,  Canada,  Japan — and 
always  found  that  plenty  of  money  was  all  a 
man  needed.  Thought  it  was  the  same  way 
here.  I've  learned  better. 

"I  visited  Rio — a  few  hours — and  then  came 
up  along  the  coast  and  inland.  At  Manaos  I 
got  into  trouble.  Went  ashore  and  got  to  drink 
ing  with  two  Germans.  One  of  them — Schmidt 
— grew  ugly  and  said  a  lot  of  rotten  things  about 
the  States.  Tell  me  something,  men — is  the 
war  over  and  did  our  country  get  into  it?" 

"It  is,  and  it  did."  And  Knowlton  outlined 
the  epochal  occurrences  of  the  world  conflict. 


332  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"And  I  missed  that,  too!"  mourned  Rand. 
"But  I  started  a  war  of  my  own  down  here, 
anyway.  When  I  quit  seeing  red  I  had  a  bottle 
neck  in  my  hand  and  both  the  Germans  were 
down.  Somebody  said  Schmidt  was  dead.  A 
couple  of  men  tried  to  grab  me.  I  fought  my 
way  clear,  hid  awhile,  got  back  on  the  boat 
without  being  noticed,  and  paid  one  of  the  crew 
well  to  hide  me  in  the  hold  and  feed  me.  Nearly 
died  from  heat  and  suffocation  down  there,  but 
lived  to  reach  Iquitos,  where  my  man  smuggled 
me  ashore.  I  thought  I  was  safe  there.  But 
before  I  could  make  a  move  to  travel  on  I  fell 
into  the  hands  of  that  cursed  Schwandorf." 

"Schwandorf!" 

"Sehwandorf.  He  was  in  Iquitos.  The  sailor 
who  hid  me  must  have  sold  me  out  to  him. 
Schwandorf  told  me  he  was  a  police  officer  in 
Brazilian  employ.  Said  he  would  take  me  back 
to  stand  trial  for  murdering  Schmidt.  The 
dirty  blackmailer  took  all  my  money  to  keep 
his  mouth  shut  and  take  me  to  a  'safe  place.' 
The  safe  place  was  up  this  river.  I  came  up  here 
with  him  in  a  canoe  paddled  by  some  tough 
Peruvians.  Then  he  began  trying  to  bully  me 
into  doing  dirty  work  for  him — running  women 
into  Peru.  I  saw  red  again  and  jumped  for  him. 
He  gave  me  that  bullet  on  the  head. 

"After  that  things  are  badly  blurred.  I  found 
myself  among  savages.  How  I  got  there,  why  I 
wasn't  killed,  I  don't  know.  Schwandorf  was 


PARTNERS  333 

there  awhile.  Then  he  went  away  with  his 
gang,  leaving  me  very  sure  of  only  one  thing — • 
I  was  a  murderer  and  would  be  executed  if 
caught.  And — well,  that's  about  all,  except 
that  the  savages  seemed  rather  afraid  of  me  and 
didn't  want  me  around." 

There  was  another  silence.  Then  Lourengo 
remarked: 

"Between  Schmidt  and  Schwandorf  you  have 
suffered  much.  It  is  possible  that  there  was  a 
connection  of  some  sort  between  them.  But 
neither  can  ever  trouble  you  again.  I  do  not 
see  why  Schwandorf  took  the  trouble  even  to 
put  you  among  the  Red  Bones.  One  more 
bullet  would  have  ended  you." 

"Any  ideas  on  that  subject,  Jose*?"  asked 
McKay. 

"Only  a  guess,  Capitan.  I  was  not  here  five 
years  ago,  and  I  knew  nothing  of  Schwandorf 
then.  But  I  know  he  always  schemed  for  his 
own  good  and  overlooked  no  chances.  So 
perhaps,  rinding  this  man  not  dead,  but  darkened 
in  mind  by  his  bullet,  he  thought  he  might  be 
able  to  use  him  in  some  way  at  some  future  time. 
A  dead  man  is  not  useful  to  anyone.  If  this 
man  should  never  become  valuable  he  could 
live  and  die  forgotten  among  savages,  where 
he  could  do  Schwandorf  no  harm.  If  worth 
something  he  could  be  found  again." 

"Cold-blooded  Prussian  efficiency,"  nodded 
McKay.  Then  he  spoke  directly  to  Rand. 


334  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

"Since  you're  mentally  sound,"  he  went  on, 
"we  may  as  well  tell  you  how  you  happen  to 
be  among  us.  We  three — Merry,  Tim,  and  I 
— came  here  to  find  you.  The  settlement  of  the 
Dawson  estate  hinges  on  you." 

"On  me?  How?  I've  no  claim  to  it.  Paul 
Dawson,  Uncle  Phil's  son — " 

"Is  dead,  too.  Killed  in  action  hi  the  Argonne. 
You're  next  in  line." 

McKay  watched  him  keenly.  So  did  Knowl- 
ton.  The  half-expected  jubilance  did  not  come. 

"So  Paul's  gone,"  was  Rand's  reply.  "Hard 
luck.  Suppose  I  hadn't  been  found  —  then 
what?" 

"In  due  time  the  money  would  go  to  a  school. 
Boys'  school." 

"Orphans?    Blind?    Cripples?" 

"Hardly."  McKay's  mouth  curved  sardon 
ically.  He  named  a  preparatory  school  of  the 
"exclusive"  type.  Rand's  mouth  also  twisted. 

"That  hotbed  of  snobbery?  That  twin  sister 
to  a  society  girls'  finishing  school?  Might  have 
known  it,  though.  Uncle  Phil  was  fond  of  the 
sort  of  education  that  doesn't  educate.  I'm 
glad  you  fellows  found  me.  I'll  go  home  and 
collect  every  red  cent,  just  to  keep  it  out  of  the 
hands  of  the  supercilious  bunch  of  bishops  that 
run  that  sissy-spawner." 

Knowlton  chuckled  appreciatively. 

"It's  not  the  sort  of  school  that  breeds  he- 
men,  for  a  fact,"  he  agreed.  "But  you  don't 


PARTNERS  335 

seem  much  enthused  over  having  a  couple  of 
millions  dropped  into  your  lap." 

Rand  sat  still.  His  face  remained  cheerless, 
impassive. 

"What  is  money?"  he  said,  presently.  "I've 
always  had  plenty  of  it.  What's  it  done  for 
me?  When  you  have  it  you  can't  tell  whether 
people  are  friends  to  you  or  only  friends  to  your 
money.  It  makes  you  cynical,  suspicious. 
What's  worse,  you  depend  too  much  on  it.  You 
think  it  will  do  everything.  Then  if  you  land 
in  a  place  where  it's  no  good  and  you  haven't 
got  it,  anyway,  you're  up  against  it  a  good  deal 
harder  than  the  fellow  who  never  had  it  but 
knows  how  to  handle  himself  without  it." 

"True  for  ye,"  Tun  concurred,  heartily.  "All 
the  same,  I  bet  ye'll  change  yer  tune  after  ye 
git  home." 

"Will  I?"  The  green  eyes  impaled  him. 
"Maybe.  But  I  don't  think  so.  I've  had  my 
run  at  blowing  in  money  on  myself  alone.  Now 
I'm  going  to  blow  some  on  other  folks.  I  missed 
out  on  the  war,  but —  There  must  be  quite  a 
few  of  our  fellows  lamed  and  crippled  by  that 
war.  And  I'll  gamble  that  the  government 
isn't  treating  them  all  like  princes.  I  know 
something  about  governments." 

"Princes?  Say,  feller,  there's  many  a  dog 
that's  took  better  care  of  than  some  of  our  boys 
back  home!" 

"So  I  thought.     The  income  from  a  couple 


336  THE  PATHLESS  TRAIL 

of  millions,  along  with  some  of  the  principal, 
will  do  a  lot  of  good  if  used  right.  And — " 
His  eyes  turned  to  the  three  bushmen. 

"Do  not  look  at  us  hi  that  way,"  said  Lou- 
rengo,  reading  his  thought.  "We  can  make  all 
the  money  we  need,  and  we  came  with  the 
capitao  and  his  comrades  only  because  we 
wanted  excitement.  Use  your  money  for  the 
crippled  men  who  need  it." 

"And  Jose  Martinez  also  is  well  able  to  pro 
vide  for  his  wants,"  coolly  added  the  other  naked 
man.  "I  am  here  only  to  settle  old  scores,  and 
now  they  are  settled.  Each  man  is  goaded  by 
his  own  spur — money,  wine,  women,  excitement, 
revenge.  Money  is  not  mine." 

He  yawned,  arose,  stretched  like  a  cat,  and 
stepped  toward  his  hammock.  The  two  Bra 
zilians  also  moved  toward  the  tambo.  The  others 
stood  a  moment  longer  beside  the  fire. 

"Well,  since  we  three  didn't  come  here  because 
of  wine,  women,  or  revenge,"  Knowlton  said, 
whimsically,  "it  must  have  been  for  money  and 
excitement.  Don't  know  which  was  the  stronger 
lure,  but  if  we  could  have  only  one  of  the  two 
I  think  we'd  let  the  money  slide.  How  about  it, 
Rod?" 

"Right!  And,  Rand,  let  me  say  this:  Before 
we  knew  you  we  had  an  impression  that  you 
were  more  or  less  of  a  worthless  pup.  We've 
changed  our  ideas.  If  you  ever  go  broke  and 
want  to  hit  a  trail  into  some  new  place  to  make 


PARTNERS  337 

a  strike  of  your  own,  and  you  need  partners, 
let  us  know." 

And  he  held  out  his  hand. 

The  naked  millionaire  took  it.  For  the  first 
tune  a  faint  smile  lightened  his  face. 

"I'll  do  that,  partners!"  he  promised. 

"Yeah!  That's  the  word.  Pardners!  Only, 
liT  Timmy  Ryan  bucks  at  ever  travelin'  back 
into  this  here,  now,  Ja-va-ree  jungle.  I  got 
enough  of  it.  Right  now  I'm  homesick." 

"So  say  we  all,"  affirmed  Knowlton.  "Now 
let's  turn  in." 

But  Tim  stood  a  little  longer  looking  out  at 
the  moonlit  river  and  the  two  waiting  canoes. 
His  gaze  roved  along  the  stream,  northward. 
He  lifted  his  head,  opened  his  mouth,  expanded 
his  lungs,  and  then  the  astounded  denizens  of 
forest  and  stream  cut  short  their  discordant 
concert  to  listen  to  something  they  never  bad 
heard  before  and  never  would  hear  again — a 
great  voice  thundering  a  censored  version  of  a 
North  American  army  song. 

"Home,  boys,  home!    Home  we  want  to  be! 
Home,  boys,  home,  in  God's  countree! 
We'll  raise  01'  Glory  to  the  top  o'  the  pole 
And  we'll  all  come  back — not  a  dog-gone  soul!" 


THE  END 


"The  Books  You  Like  to  Read 
at  the  Price  You  Like  to  Pay" 


There  Are  Two  Sides 
to  Everything — 

— including  the  wrapper  which  covers 
every  Grosset  &  Dunlap  book.  When 
you  feel  in  the  mood  for  a  good  ro 
mance,  refer  to  the  carefully  selected  list 
of  modern  fiction  comprising  most  of 
the  successes  by  prominent  writers  of 
the  day  which  is  printed  on  the  back  of 
every  Grosset  &  Dunlap  book  wrapper. 

You  will  find  more  than  five  hundred 
titles  to  choose  from — books  for  every 
mood  and  every  taste  and  every  pocket- 
book. 

Don't  forget  the  other  side,  but  in  case 
the  wrapper  is  lost,  write  to  the  -publishers 
for  a  complete  catalog. 


There  is  a  Grosset  &  Dunlap  Book 
for  every  mood  and  for  every  taste 


EDGAR  RICE   BURROUGH'S 
NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  Grossat  &  Dunlap's  list 

TARZAN  THE  UNTAMED  ' 

Tells  of  Tarzan'  s  return  to  the  life  of  the  ape-man  in 
his  search  for  vengeance  on  those  who  took  from  him  his 
wife  and  home. 

JUNGLE  TALES  OF  TARZAN 

Records  the  many  wonderful  exploits  by  which  Tarzan, 
proves  his  right  to  ape  kingship. 

A  PRINCESS  OF  MARS 

Forty-three  million  miles  from  the  earth — a  succession 
of  the  weirdest  and  most  astounding  adventures  in  fiction. 
John  Carter,  American,  finds  himself  on  the  planet  Mars, 
battling  for  a  beautiful  woman,  with  the  Green  Men  of 
Mars,  terrible  creatures  fifteen  feet  high,  mounted  on 
horses  like  dragons. 


Continuing  John  Carter' s  adventures  on  the  Planet  Mars, 
in  which  he  does  battle  against  the  ferocious  * 'plant  men," 
creatures  whose  mighty  tails  swished  their  victims  to  instant 
death,  and  defies  Issus,  the  terrible  Goddess  of  Death, 
whom  all  Mars  worships  and  reveres. 

THE  WARLORD  OF  MARS 

i  Old  acquaintances,  made  in  the  two  other  stories,  reap 
pear,  Tars  Tarkas,  Tardos  Mors  and  others.  There  is  2 
happy  ending  to  the  story  in  the  union  of  the  Warlord, 
the  title  conferred  upon  John  Carter,  with  Dejah  Thoris. 

THUVIA,  MAID  OF  MARS 

The  fourth  volume  of  the  series.  The  story  centers 
around  the  adventures  of  Carthoris,  the  son  of  John  Car 
ter  and  Thuvia,  daughter  of  a  Martian  Emperor. 


PETER  B.  KYNE'S  NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.       Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

THE  PRIDE  OF  PALQMAR 

When  two  strong  men  clash  and  the  under-dog  has  Irish 
blood  in  his  veins — there's  a  tale  that  Kyne  can  tell !  And 
"  the  girl "  is  also  very  much  in  evidence. 

KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Donald  McKay,  son  of  Hector  McKay,  millionaire  lum 
ber  king,  falls  in  love  with  "  Nan  of  the  Sawdust  Pile,"  a 
charming  girl  who  has  been  ostracized  by  her  townsfolk, 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  GIANTS 

The  fight  of  the  Cardigans,  father  and  son,  to  hold  the 
Valley  of  the  Giants  against  treachery.  The  reader  finishes 
with  a  sense  of  having  lived  with  big  men  and  women  in  a 
big  country. 

GAPPY  RICKS 

The  story  of  old  Gappy  Ricks  and  of  Matt  Peasley,  the 
boy  he  tried  to  break  because  he  knew  the  acid  test  was 
good  for  his  soul. 

WEBSTER:  MAN'S  MAN 

In  a  little  Jim  Crow  Republic  in  Central  America,  a  man 
and  a  woman,  hailing  from  the  "  States,"  met  up  with  a 
revolution  and  for  a  while  adventures  and  excitement  came 
so  thick  and  fast  that  their  love  affair  had  to  wait  for  a  lull 
in  the  game. 

CAPTAIN  SCRAGGS 

This  sea  yarn  recounts  the  adventures  of  three  rapscal 
lion  sea-faring  men — a  Captain  Scraggs,  owner  of  the  green 
vegetable  freighter  Maggie,  Gibney  the  mate  and  McGuff- 
ney  the  engineer. 

'  THE  LONG  CHANCE 

A  story  fresh  from  the  heart  of  the  West,  of  San  Pasqual, 
a  sun-baked  desert  town,  of  Harley  P.  Hennage,  the  best 
gambler,  the  best  and  worst  man  of  San  Pasqual  and  of 
lovely  Donna. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


JACKSON  GREGORY'S  NOVELS 

May  be  had  whatever  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  Grostet  &  Dunlap's  list. 

THE  EVERLASTING  WHISPER 

The  story  of  a  strong  man's  struggle  against  savage  nature  and  human 
ity,  and  of  a  beautiful  girl's  regeneration  from  a  spoiled  child  of  wealth  into 
a  courageous  strong-willed  woman. 

DESERT  VALLEY 

A  college  professor  sets  out  with  his  daughter  to  find  gold.  They  meet 
a  rancher  who  loses  his  heart,  and  become  involved  in  a  feud.  An  intensely 
exciting  story. 

MAN  TO  MAN 

Encircled  with  enemies,  distrusted,  Steve  defends  his  rights.  How  he 
won  his  game  and  the  girl  he  loved  is  the  story  filled  wtth  breathless 
situations. 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  JUAN 

Dr.  Virginia  Page  b  forced  to  go  with  the  sheriff  on  a  night  journey 
•into  the  strongholds  of  a  lawless  band.  Thrills  and  excitement  sweep  the 
reader  along  to  the  end. 

JUDITH  OF  BLUE  LAKE  RANCH 

Judith  Sanford  part  owner  of  a  cattle  ranch  realizes  she  is  being  robbed 
by  her  foreman.  How,  with  the  help  of  Bud  Lee,  she  checkmates  Trevor's 
scheme  makes  fascinating  reading. 

THE  SHORT  CUT 

Wayne  is  suspected  of  killing  his  brother  after  a  violent  quarrel.  Finan 
cial  complications,  villains,  a  horse-race  and  beautiful  Wanda,  all  go  to  make 
up  a  thrilling  romance. 

THE  JOYOUS  TROUBLE  MAKER 

A  reporter  sets  up  housekeeping  close  to  Beatrice's  Ranch  much  to  her 
chagrin.  There  is  "  another  man  "  who  complicates  matters,  but  all  turns 
out  as  it  should  in  this  tale  of  romance  and  adventure. 

SIX  FEET  FOUR 

Beatrice  Waverly  is  robbed  of  $5,000  and  suspicion  fastens  upon  Buck 
Thornton,  but  she  soon  realizes  he  is  not  guilty.  Intensely  exciting,  here  is  a 
real  story  of  the  Great  Far  West. 

WOLF  BREED 

No  Luck  Drennan  had  grown  hard  through  loss  of  faith  in  men  he  had 
trusted.  A  woman  hater  and  sharp  of  tongue,  he  finds  a  match  in  Ygeme 
whose  clever  fencing  wins  the  admiration  and  love  of  the  "  Lone  Wolf." 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


JAMES   OLIVER  CURWOOD'S 

STORIES  OF  ADVENTURE 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

THE  RIVER'S  END~ 

A  story  of  the  Royal  Mounted  Police. 
THE  GOLDEN  SNARE 

Thrilling  adventures  in  the  Far  Northland. 
NOMADS  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  a  bear-cub  and  a  dog. 
KAZAN 

The  tale  of  a  "quarter-strain  wolf  and  three-quarters  husky"  torn 
between  the  call  of  the  human  and  his  wild  mate. 

BAREE,  SON  OF  KAZAN 

The  story  of  the  son  of  the  blind  Grey  Wolf  and  the  gallant  part 
he  played  in  the  lives  of  a  man  and  a  woman. 

THE  COURAGE  OF  CAPTAIN  PLUM 

The  story  of  the  King  of  Beaver  Island,  a  Mormon  colony,  and  his 
battle  with  Captain  Plum. 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL 

A  tale  of  love,  Indian  vengeance,  and  a  mystery  of  the  North. 
THE  HUNTED  WOMAN 

A  tale  of  a  great  fight  in  the  "  valley  of  gold  "  for  a  woman. 
THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  NORTH 

The  story  of  Fort  o'  God,  where  the  wild  flavor  of  the  wilderness 
is  blended  with  the  courtly  atmosphere  of  France. 

THE  GRIZZLY  KING 

The  story  of  Thor,  the  big  grizzly. 
I  SO BEL 

A  love  story  of  the  Far  North. 
THE  WOLF  HUNTERS 

A  thrilling  tale  of  adventure  in  the  Canadian  wilderness. 
THE  GOLD  HUNTERS 

The  story  of  adventure  in  the  Hudson  Bay  wilds. 
THE  COURAGE  OF  MARGE  O'DOONE 

Filled  with  exciting  incidents  in  the  land  of  strong  men  and  women. 
BACK  TO  GOD'S  COUNTRY 

A  thrilling  story  of  the  Far  North.  The  great  Photoplay  was  made 
from  this  book. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


' 


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